Choices
by Mike2
Summary: It began with a simple high school party, but the consequences of choices made by Ranma (and others) at that event prove far-reaching.
1. Choices: The Party

Choices  
  
Part One: The Party by Michael Noakes  
  
Burning embers floated high on the night wind to flicker briefly among the stars before flaring, fading, dying. Their dizzying dance twirled amongst the smoke and raucous laughter of boys as they drifted into the sky. As Hiroshi watched, one particular particle of glowing ash was carried away, then reversed direction as it was caught in an unexpected eddy. It alighted upon a bare arm and was unconsciously brushed away.  
"You sure you don't want one?" he asked, offering a bottle.  
Ranma glanced at the bottle with distaste and shook his head. "You know I don't drink," he answered. Hiroshi shrugged and kept the beer for himself, not entirely surprised. The mere fact that Ranma had showed up was amazing enough in its own right; to expect him to actually have a good time was probably asking too much. Not that his attitude made any sense: what was the point of Ranma coming to Kiyoshi's party -- easily the biggest, best party of the year -- if he wasn't going to relax somewhat and have some _fun_.  
Hiroshi settled comfortably into his seat by the fire. Must be nice, he thought, to be this rich, to have parents as well off as Kiyoshi's obviously were. Their house was absolutely huge: built on slanted ground, the basement opened up onto the rear through patio doors that led onto an attractive terrace; a beautiful porch was suspended above it and gave a great view of the carefully landscaped yard. The property was fantastically expansive -- at least, it was to a boy like Hiroshi whose idea of a backyard was a square plot of earth with just enough room for his mother to grow a few flowers. There was even a low stone wall surrounding the whole piece of land. Ultimately, though, the most important aspect of their house was, of course, the outdoor pool. It was -- unsurprisingly, considering the uncommonly warm weather -- currently the centre of much of the activity at the party.  
Whatever Kiyoshi's parents did for a living to afford this level of luxury, it also kept them very busy -- meaning that on a weekend like this, nearing the end of another year of studies, madness, and chaos at Furinkan High, with both adults gone, Kiyoshi's place became _the_ place to have a whopping huge party. Classmates, male and female, from Furinkan and elsewhere, were standing and chatting, and presumably drinking, in groups, both inside and outside the house; others were dancing and jumping about, music blaring; many were already taking advantage of the outside pool and were swimming and splashing wildly, bubbly laughter and joyful shrieks punctuating their fun. But he would go swimming later, he decided. Right now, Hiroshi was content to just sit around by the convenient fire-pit set in the backyard, shoot the shit with his buddies, and enjoy the contrast of the fire's heat on his front, the refreshing wind on his back, and the cold beer in his hand. Yes, thought Hiroshi, this is turning out to be a beautiful party. Kiyoshi had another hit on his hand -- everybody was having a great time.  
No, not everybody, he amended, looking sideways at Ranma, who was absently brushing away another ember from the turned-down sleeves of his usual red Chinese shirt. At least one person is not enjoying himself. Not drinking, not talking, he was just . . . sitting there.  
"Hey, Ranma?" Hiroshi leaned towards his friend. "What's wrong? You're just, you know, sitting there."  
Ranma shrugged. "I dunno. Guess I'm just not in a partying mood," he answered. Picking up a stick, he poked idly at the fire.  
"Ah." After a moment, he tried again. "Hey, didn't you come with Akane? Where is she?"  
"How should I know?" muttered Ranma. He gave the log a sharp jab. "Stupid tomboy."  
Ooookay, thought Hiroshi. Obviously Saotome was not in a very good mood tonight. Probably another falling out between him and his fiancee. Again. But if they were fighting, why did he bother coming to the party with her? Especially if he was just going to sit there and sulk?  
Actually, he thought as he glanced around for Daisuke (his friend having left for the house to grab a few more drinks from the fridge), it was surprising enough that Ranma had come at all. He never showed up at any of the little get-togethers his classmates organized. Understandable, perhaps, considering the active lifestyle he led, but, still, if he was going to bother coming out, he could at least try to have a little fun. Ranma must have read his thoughts, because a second later he turned to Hiroshi.  
"I didn't really even want to come," said Ranma. "It was my stupid pop's idea . . . and Mr. Tendo's, of course. They found out Akane was coming to this party with some friends of hers . . . so they thought it only natural that her fiance oughta accompany her." He scowled. "Like I even wanted to go to some stupid party, anyway. Especially after she didn't even ask me. Especially after she told me she didn't want me hanging around with her! Like I'd want to hang around with a kawaikunee like her!" He gave another fierce poke at the fire.  
So that was it.  
"Here ya go, bud." His thoughts were interrupted as Daisuke plopped down next to him. His friend passed a few bottles over before glancing across at Ranma, who had returned to staring sullenly at the fire. "Hey. . . what's with him?" he whispered to Hiroshi.  
Hiroshi suppressed a smile. "Another fight with Akane," he answered. "She told him to leave her alone."  
"Again? Sheesh. Is it just me or have they been fighting worse than usual, lately?"  
He shrugged. "Probably. Who can tell?" He popped open another beer and took a drink. "Hey, by the way. . . what took you so long?"  
Daisuke glanced around, then smirked. "Heh. Almost got into a little tangle."  
"Huh? How so?"  
"Well. . . I was grabbing a coupla beers from the bar fridge, and when I stood up, I bumped into Ryuta, and. . . ."  
"Ryuta? Not Uehara. . .?"  
Daisuke nodded.  
"Shit! Who invited him?"  
"Does it matter? He probably invited himself."  
"Yeah. So what happened?"  
"Nothing much, really." Daisuke shrugged. "I accidentally knocked his drink onto him. He wasn't impressed. Threatened to kick my ass if I didn't get him another drink."  
"So did you?"  
"Yeah. Gave him a few bottles," he nodded. "But when he wasn't looking, I swiped a couple of his bottles of sake." With a grin, he tossed over one of said bottles. "Serves the jerk right, threatening me over an accident!"  
Hiroshi looked down at the bottles with a small frown. "Shit, man, if he finds out. . . ."  
"What's he gonna do, eh?"  
"I already _told_ you what I was gonna do, you little shit," growled a deep voice from behind.  
With a surprised 'eep!', Daisuke spun and leapt to his feet. "Ah, hey. . . ah," he stammered.  
Hiroshi watched as the other guy stepped into the firelight. It most certainly was Ryuta: one of the local Furinkan bullies, one of the few that had managed to survive after the various martial artists had arrived and the regime of Miss Hinako had begun. Big guy, strong, tough, his face somewhat resembling something chiselled out of granite, he was known for having a rather nasty temper. Not the kind of guy whose bad side you would want to get on (not, mind you, that he had a good side anybody knew about, thought Hiroshi), and not the kind of guy Kiyoshi would invite -- but that had never stopped Uehara from crashing a party before. Somewhere in the back of his mind Hiroshi wondered if any of the bully's usual friends were hanging around, but his immediate concern was on the nasty feeling growing in the pit of his stomach at the prospect of impending pain.  
"Hey, listen, it was a little joke, you know?" tried Daisuke, as the larger youth grabbed him by the front of the shirt and hauled him forward.  
"Yeah, sure, just a joke." Ryuta sneered as he tightened his grip. "Funny." Daisuke paled slightly.  
Well, this certainly sucks, mused Hiroshi. Trust an idiot like this to ruin a perfectly good party. With a sigh he started to stand up to help his friend, noticing that some of the other guys around the fire were getting up as well. This is probably going to hurt, he decided.  
"Sit down!" said the bully, eyes flashing, upper lip curling with scorn. "Or do I gotta beat the lot of you wimps up, too?" Hiroshi had no doubt that he could, too -- the guy was a nasty brawler, always getting into scuffles with goons from other schools. . . and usually winning. Resigned to a whole lot of pain, Hiroshi hesitantly raised his fists in something hopefully approximating a fighting stance.  
"Ummm. Listen. Couldja, you know. . . let him go?" stammered Hiroshi, despite his best effort to sound tough.  
"Oh, so you want it first?" demanded Ryuta, tossing Daisuke aside and turning to his friend. With a contemptuous glance at the boy on the ground, he took a step towards Hiroshi, one hammy fist rearing back. . . .  
. . . there was a sudden blur that zinged by, and a metallic 'ting'. . .  
. . . and suddenly the big guy was clutching his shoulder in unexpected pain. "What the?"  
Hiroshi opened his eyes, surprised he was still standing, wondering what the delay was. And suddenly, he knew, and grinned. Ryuta Uehara had chosen the _wrong_ group to threaten this time. With a narrowing of eyes, the bully took another step forward.  
Something zinged by again. Again Ryuta let out an exclamation of pain, rubbing at his thigh. "Hey! Who's. . . ."  
Hiroshi smiled and stepped aside, revealing the attacker still sitting calmly by the fire.  
"Why don't you just go away?" asked Ranma, bored.  
Ryuta peered at the pig-tailed boy. Maybe he could not make out who it was. Maybe he did not care, or actually did not know. But Hiroshi watched as the larger youth flushed in anger. "You gonna make me, you little piece of. . . ."  
There was an audible sigh from Ranma, and then his hands became a blur. Things -- Hiroshi still could not tell what -- snapped from his fingers.  
"I'm gonna. . . ouch!" exclaimed Ryuta. "You. . . ouch! Ouch! Dammit. . . ouch!" He tried to take a step forward; something pinged off his knee. Then his chest. Then his thighs, shoulders, arms, and finally his forehead. He staggered back, a small trickle of blood beading from the small cut between his eyes. He glared at the group. "I'll get. . . !"  
This one bounced off his groin. His eyes bulged, briefly, before he twisted away, moaning, and stumbled ungracefully in the general direction of the house.  
A small cheer went up around the fire as everyone sat down again. Hiroshi turned to Ranma, Daisuke -- who hadn't yet moved from where he laid sprawled -- scrambling to his feet and falling in next to him. Their friend looked up at them and grinned. "Not too smart, is he? Still, good thing he left when he did," he added, opening his hand. "I was running out of ammunition." Sitting in his palm was a single beer bottlecap.  
"You. . . you were flinging beercaps at him?"  
"Yup. Saotome School of Anything--Goes Special Attack: Cap--oeira Strike; just one of the many moves that make up the style known as 'Bar Fly Do'."  
Hiroshi and Daisuke stared at him for a moment. "You're kidding, right?"  
"Scarily enough, no." With a snap of his fingers, Ranma sent the last bottlecap tearing off into the night. "It's a style my pop developed while 'studying' in a string of bars across China. Uses all the usual bar accessories -- mugs, stools, bottles, beer nuts -- as martial art weapons. Pop always said it's meant as a supplement to drunken--style Kung Fu." He shrugged. "I figured he was just looking for an excuse to hang out at the local bar -- and a way to get out without paying the tab."  
Daisuke looked at Hiroshi, who simply shrugged. Tavern-based fighting styles, drunken wandering fathers, trips across China -- it was all part of a lifestyle he simply found impossible to understand. Ranma seemed to take it all for granted; somehow, Hiroshi was not so sure that he would be able to do the same.  
  
The small metal disk winged its merry way through the Nerimean sky. Eventually, it began its rapid descent. With a loud 'ting' it bounced off a late-night pedestrian's head.  
With a growl, he reached down and picked up the crumpled cap. He did not know where it came from. He did not know how it came to bounce off his head. But somehow, Ryoga Hibiki knew that Ranma Saotome was to blame.  
  
"Are you sure you don't want it?"  
Hiroshi watched as Ranma sighed and shook his head. "Yes, I'm sure," he answered, pushing away Daisuke's offer. "Listen. . . you don't gotta thank me for helping out. That guy was asking for it; can't stand jerks like that. I hate bullies."  
Daisuke looked a little disappointed, but nodded and sat down next to his friend. With Ryuta gone, the conversation was starting to pick up again. Hiroshi looked around the fire -- mostly people he knew, guys from his classes, or a grade above or below him, but a few strangers that he guessed were from different schools. Coming around the circle, his eyes came to rest upon Ranma.  
"Hey, by the way -- thanks."  
Hiroshi blinked and turned to his friend. "Huh?"  
"For, you know, standing up for me," supplied Daisuke. "Against that asshole."  
He shrugged. "What're friends for, eh?"  
"Yeah."  
There was a momentary pause, before Hiroshi continued in a low voice. "Hey, Dai-."  
"Yeah?"  
"Have a look at Ranma there."  
"Yeah? And?"  
"What d'ya figure he's doing?"  
"I dunno," answered Daisuke. "Looks like he's just sitting there. Why?"  
"That's just it -- he's just sitting there!" said Hiroshi, and fell silent. Daisuke gave him a quizzical glance, shrugged, and returned to drinking and talking. His friend remained fixated on the pig-tailed boy's actions, or lack thereof. He's just kinda pulled back, Hiroshi finally concluded, out of the group, out of the circle. Why? Why not join in the conversation? After fighting off Ryuta -- without even standing up! -- they probably _wanted_ him to join in, and certainly would not refuse him! But he didn't. Maybe he thought he was too good for them? Maybe he was bored? Maybe he simply did not care, did not even _want_ to be part of the gang? But then he saw Ranma glance up, give a sad, almost envious look at the guys as their voices rose in mirth and mock argument, and Hiroshi knew that that could not be why. Well, whatever the reasons, Hiroshi decided that, like it or not, Ranma was going to have a good time tonight. Already, Ranma, who looked like he had come alive somewhat while driving away the bully, was withdrawing into himself, returning to his earlier sullen demeanor. Now, how to break him out of it?  
"Are you NUTS?" exclaimed a loud voice from across the fire, distracting him for a moment. Hiroshi recognized Toshi, a friend from one grade up. "Keiko's better looking than Hiromi? Are you blind, man?"  
"No! Are you? There's, like, no comparison!"  
"You're right! Hiromi's a hell of a lot better looking!"  
Getting drawn in despite himself, Hiroshi had to agree. Sure, the red--headed Keiko was cute, but the body on Hiromi was. . . impressive. Very impressive. Besides, the one guy _had_ to defend Keiko -- he was dating her. "Sorry, man, but I gotta agree with Toshi," he said, addressing Keiko's stalwart defender. "Just _look_ at Hiromi!"  
Somebody gave a little laugh. "Yeah, right. Wonder what he's looking at, eh?"  
At which point somebody else added: "Hey, should you even be lookin'? Ain't you and Sayuri, you know. . . ."  
"Hey! It's none of your business!" exclaimed Hiroshi. "We've just gone on a few dates, that's all!" Well, maybe not _all_, but he did not see any reason to share his personal life with these guys. Friends are friends, but some things you simply don't share. Besides, Sayuri would kill him if she ever found out.  
"Sorry, bud," added Daisuke from next to him. "But I can't agree with you, here. Keiko is _definitely_ better looking."  
"Ah, hell, you're both wrong!"  
Soon, a lively argument was underway. As he listened (and added the occasional comment), the conversation quickly grew to encompass the largest part of the female population of Furinkan High. Seemed everybody had an opinion on who was the hottest babe in school. Hiroshi noticed that a couple of the girls walking by gave them dirty looks, but he did not really care. Looking down at the empty bottle in his hand, he realized that he was starting to feel. . . rather good. Grinning without any good reason, he turned to Ranma -- suddenly remembering his earlier decision -- and noticed that, though not adding anything, his friend had drawn a little closer to the group, was listening avidly to everything with a slight smile and attentive eyes.  
"Whaddya think, Ranma?" asked Hiroshi, and smiled. "Who's the best looking girl?"  
The group fell quiet, all eyes turning to Ranma. And then: "Yeah? Who d'ya think, Ranma? C'mon!" Ranma paled slightly.  
"Well, ah. . . you know. . ." he stammered.  
Daisuke nudged him. "C'mon, Ranma. . . you gotta have a favourite. . . maybe that friend of Nabiki's, the one with the pig-tail? Eh?"  
"What? No! I. . . ah, you know. . . ." He stopped when he realized everybody -- or at least those who knew him -- were grinning. "What?"  
"Guess it wasn't really a fair question," said Toshi.  
"Yeah," added Hiroshi. "What with him having Akane and everything. . . ."  
"HEY!" protested Ranma. "Akane? No way!"  
"No?"  
"No! That tomboy? Ha! She's. . . ."  
"KAWAIKUNEE!" chorused the crowd, and laughed.  
After a moment, Ranma grinned sheepishly. "Yeah. That's right," he said. "And it's not like I 'have' her, either!"  
"Really?" asked someone Hiroshi did not recognize. "You don't love her?"  
"What? No!" cried Ranma.  
"Oh? So you wouldn't mind if I asked her out on a date?"  
"WHAT?" yelled Ranma, jumping to his feet. "Akane's my fia. . . ." He stammered to a stop as everyone burst into laughter. Blushing in embarrassment, he sat down again. "Fine. Ask her. See if I care," he muttered, but cracked a little smile. Leaning forward a bit, he asked a question of his own. "So, what, do _you_ guys think she's good-looking?"  
There was a brief and somewhat awkward silence around the circle, which Hiroshi was the first to break. "Ah, Ranma? I don't think anyone's gonna touch that one. But. . . just remember. Before you showed up here, Akane had to fight off about thirty guys every morning. What do you think?"  
"Yeah, I've still got the scar on my arm," muttered someone.  
"Ok, ok," said Ranma. "Well, then. . . what about. . . Ucchan?"  
"Ucchan?"  
"Yeah, you know -- Ukyou?"  
"Isn't he a boy?" asked Toshi.  
"Nah -- just dresses as one," answered somebody else. "Actually, I've kinda wondered what she's like, under. . . ." But he petered off as Ranma glared at him.  
"Ranma? I don't think you're gonna get an answer on that one, either. She's another one of your fiancees. That makes her off-ground for us, you know?" said Daisuke.  
"Oh," said Ranma.  
"Well, what about. . . ," started someone else, and the conversation took off again in a new direction. Hiroshi leaned back again and cracked open one of the bottles Daisuke had appropriated. As the conversation turned slightly raunchier -- now the guys were giving their frank appraisal of what women liked, or why they did the incomprehensible things they did -- he noticed that Ranma drew in even closer, avidly following every thread of the discussion, though adding little or nothing himself. Hiroshi wondered why; if anyone here had the slightest clue on how to attract women, or how they think, it was Ranma! The guy had three fiancees and hordes of women always chasing him! And, of course, there was the small matter of the curse. . . .  
"Hey! Why don't we ask Ranma?" suddenly asked Toshi's friend, Kenji. "You gotta know what the women like!"  
"Me?" Ranma started at his sudden inclusion in the conversation. "Why me?"  
"Well, gee, maybe 'cus you've got three fiancees?"  
"And all those other girls chasing after you?"  
"Heck, you've been living with two of the best looking girls in the school for, what, a year now?"  
"Whoa!" interrupted Ranma, raising his hands. "I didn't _ask_ for any of my fiancees, or any of those other girls! They just. . . happened!" He paused for a moment, as if in thought. "Although, I guess, I was partly responsible. . . what with my devastatingly good looks and charming personality, and all. . . ."  
"Oh, please," gagged someone.  
"And, of course, there's the Saotome art of Making-Women-Fall-In-Love- With-You, which, being a family secret, I'm not at liberty to share."  
"I'm gonna be sick."  
"And, of course, the martial arts. Chicks dig the martial arts."  
"Yeah, right. Of course they do."  
"But. . . really. . . I don't have a clue how I do it!" He gave a grin -- half arrogant, half playful -- and shrugged. "I guess some of us are just naturals."  
"Gee, thanks a lot, Saotome," grumbled Kenji.  
"Seriously, though, guys," continued Ranma, shuffling in a little closer. "D'ya think if I knew what made women happy, I'd always be fighting with Akane? I may live with her -- but I certainly can't figure her out!"  
"Oh." There was a momentary pause, and then a curious Kenji forged gamely ahead. "But. . . still. You must've had more experience then most of us, right?"  
"Huh?"  
"I mean. . . well, between Akane, and Ukyou, and, ah. . . you know, that purple--haired one, whatzername--"  
"Shampoo."  
"Yeah. Shampoo. I mean, we've seen how they throw themselves at you. . . ." He turned to the other guys for support. "Right guys?"  
"Yeah!"  
Ranma gave an expression somewhere between a grimace and a grin. "Akane? Throw herself at me?"  
"Ah, right. Well, the other two, then," amended Kenji. "They sure seem to, well. . . like you -- especially that Shampoo."  
"Yeah? So?"  
"So? So you must've, you know. . . ." He left the statement dangling.  
Ranma totally failed to pick up on it. "What?"  
"You _know_. . . ," he repeated.  
The pigtailed boy remained blank. "What?"  
"I think what he's insinuating," supplied Daisuke, leaning in and grinning, "is that you must've had sex with at least _one_ of them."  
There was a moment of stunned silence on Ranma's part, and then a very odd look -- something between disgust, annoyance, and outright panic -- crawled across his face. "WHAT?" he exclaimed. "NO! I didn't! I haven't!"  
There was a round of "Yeah, right!"s and "C'mon!"s and "As if!"s, and disbelieving cries all around. Hiroshi did not bother adding his own voice -- he knew better, and actually believed Ranma, although having seen Shampoo around campus a few times, could not help but wonder how his friend resisted the temptation. Probably a fear or love (or both) of Akane, or something -- or maybe just a curse-induced lack of testosterone.  
"I'm serious!" insisted Ranma. "I already told ya -- I didn't ask for any of 'em! I sure ain't gonna. . . you know. . . with them." He flushed a bit at the idea. "Besides, if I _did_, and Akane found out. . . she'd kill me!"  
"What if she was the one you did it with?"  
"That would be even _worse_!"  
Hiroshi snickered and patted his flustered friend on the back.  
Kenji looked a bit disappointed for a moment. "So, uh, you're a. . . ."  
"What? Virgin?" said Ranma, sounding a little angry. Not defensive, just upset. "Yeah. What's the big deal?"  
"Nothing!" Kenji raised his hands placatingly. "Nothing. I -- ah, we -- just figured that, with all those girls, you would've. . . ."  
"Well I haven't." Ranma seemed to insert an air of finality into his words, yet continued a moment later. "Listen. I spent, what, the last ten years on the road. The last few months before coming to Nerima were spent wandering across China. Training. That's where I met Shampoo." He stopped for a moment, as if in reflection. He smiled slightly. "But all she wanted to do was kill me. So, yeah, I didn't have much time to think about that kinda stuff -- what with running for my life and everything. And when I got here, and moved in with the Tendos -- well, things've been kinda. . . busy, you know?  
"Heck, I haven't even had a real kiss from one of 'em, yet. Shampoo did, twice: but one was the Kiss of Death -- which was on my girl-body to boot -- and the other was the Kiss of Marriage, so they don't count." He shrugged.  
Kenji looked at him disbelievingly. "You mean, with all these babes throwin' themselves at you, you haven't even had a real _kiss_ yet?"  
"Well. . . ," Ranma started to say, then hesitated. A odd look crossed his face: he seemed to remember something, momentarily, that made him look slightly ill; then, his face flushed and he suddenly seemed upset. "No," he said curtly. "I haven't done anythin' like that -- with anyone." Seeing the unexpected, restrained anger, Kenji decided to let the subject end. Hiroshi was glad he did. He could not fathom what had upset Ranma, but it was obviously a touchy subject.  
There was a brief lull as the sound of bottles being opened all around rang out. Daisuke leaned forward after taking a drink. "So. With all that said -- you're saying you don't know more about the way women think than the rest of us guys?"  
"Nope." Ranma shook his head. "Why should I?"  
"I think," growled a voice from behind Hiroshi, slightly slurred. "I think they're askin' 'cus. . . 'cus you're a girl yourself!"  
There was a sudden frigid silence around the fire, and all eyes turned to Ranma. Under their scrutiny he stiffened, face hardening. Hiroshi had a bad feeling about this -- a very bad feeling. There were certain subjects you simply did not raise around Ranma: his curse, his masculinity or lack thereof; and you never, ever, called him a girl.  
"Excuse me?" the pigtailed boy asked, voice dangerously cold.  
"I said, you'd know. . . 'cus you're a girl."  
"That's what I thought you said." Slowly and smoothly, Ranma rose to his feet and turned towards the intruder. "I. Am. A. Guy. Got it?" He glared as the figure approached. "You got that, Ryuta? Or are you stupid?"  
Ryuta stepped closer, striding arrogantly up to Ranma. The bully was, at a quick comparison, the more intimidating of the two. He was certainly taller, and thicker set, with coarse, rigid features, and a drunken wildness to his eyes that was decidedly uncomfortable. But a glance at Ranma, at his intensity, at the sudden deceptive looseness with which he held himself, made it obvious to those who knew, who was the one to fear.  
"Oh, yeah, sure, a guy," muttered Ryuta. "My mistake."  
"I'm glad we got that cleared up," Ranma said, still glaring.  
"Yeah." Ryuta turned away, then paused. "It's just that," he started. "You sure _look_ like a girl!" Ranma hopped back as Ryuta spun around and punched forward; he avoided the strike with ease -- but the contents of Ryuta's glass hit him full in the face.  
Hiroshi groaned out loud.  
  
"Akane!"  
"Just a 'sec, okay?" she said, and turned away from Sayuri as a friend hurried up with a concerned look on her face. "Yes? What is it?"  
The girl came to a breathless stop. "Akane! There's. . . it looks like there's going to be a fight outside!"  
Akane's countenance darkened. "It's Ranma, isn't it?"  
The girl nodded.  
"That idiot," she growled. And after I made him promise not to fight! Could she not have at least _one_ night to herself, one night where her baka, unwanted fiance did not get himself into a fistfight? Well, she would show him! "Where is he?"  
"I think he's with Hiroshi and the guys -- over by the fire."  
"So what's it about this time?"  
"I don't know -- I think the other guy started it -- but he's not alone. . . ."  
The other guy started it? Not likely, considering Ranma. Well, she would set everything straight -- even if she had to beat up both involved parties to do so!  
  
Ranma wiped the liquid from her eyes. It was not water -- it was slightly sticky and smelled sweet, and stung a little -- but obviously it had been enough to do the job. With unconscious ease developed over innumerable accidental encounters with cold water, she tightened the belt around her waist and adjusted her clothing.  
"See what I mean?" mocked Ryuta. "You _are_ a girl!" Ranma berated herself for not dodging the splash, and proceeded to eye her opponent critically. The guy obviously knew how to fight; not as a martial artist, perhaps -- he lacked that unconscious air of calm confidence and discipline -- but most definitely as a brawler, with an intensity that only experience brings. Big, strong, and probably pretty tough; drunk, too, which never helped -- enough fights with Pop after he would come home after drinking too much, yet stubbornly insisting on training, had taught her what to expect. Not that it mattered: after one got used to fighting the likes of Ryoga, chumps like this simply failed to measure up. There was only one problem: the promise to Akane. She would not go back on her word; she could not, even though every instinct was screaming at her to beat the shit out of this jerk.  
"So, c'mon, Ranma." Ryuta stepped forward. "What's it like? Eh? What turns a girl on -- what's it feel like?"  
The redhead took a deep breath. She would _not_ be baited into a fight. This was. . . training, like for the Hiryu Shotenha; she just had to keep a level head, and stay cool. "Go away, Ryuta. . . ." Ranma forced her voice to stay calm, though there was a slight tremor she could not avoid. "I'm not interested in a fight."  
The larger boy ignored her and moved closer. Ranma noticed that he was not alone; the bully had brought along a few of his bully friends, two of them flanking their leader and the other making a pathetic attempt at sneaking up from behind. "You telling us you don't know? You telling us you've never. . . experimented?"  
"No. I haven't," said Ranma, anger starting to grow. "I'm not some kind of pervert!"  
"I find that hard to believe. C'mon, what's it like -- having your breasts felt up?"  
"I wouldn't know."  
"No? Maybe you've gone further. . . maybe tried it with a guy, eh, you little sex-changing freak? What's it like, feeling some guy inside of you, huh? Grinding away at you, thrusting, his hands all over. . . ."  
Ranma felt the blood pounding in her ears, her rage building, the leash restraining her anger slipping. The presence of the crowd thrust itself upon her awareness, their whispers coming to her peripherally: some of the guys she'd been chatting with, who knew her, wondering why she hadn't taken Ryuta down yet; others, who hadn't been there, but recognized her, unsurprised that she'd started a fight -- "oh, look, it's Ranma, fighting again, big surprise. . . ," they said; and the others, the curious, the surprised, wondering "who's that girl" or "shouldn't we do something, she's going to get hurt," but no one actually doing anything, after all, it wasn't any of _their_ business, and Uehara was a really _big_ guy. And then the other whispers, the ones that hurt: "Do you think she's telling the truth?", "Maybe Ryuta's right," "I always knew he was a pervert!" So she spoke to drown out the voices with her own, words half- choked with fury and shame, louder and shriller than she would have liked. "Don't. . . don't, Ryuta. Don't push me. I -- I promised I wouldn't get into a fight tonight -- don't make me break my word. Don't." A deep shuddering breath, an attempt to regain control. And then, "I'm a man."  
Uehara swaggered a step closer, sneering down at the diminutive girl, close and towering over her. "I always knew it," he stated in a cold, hard whisper, drunkenness fading before sudden meanness. "Scared. You're all lies and reputation. A joke."  
"You're the joke, Ryuta." she replied evenly. "You're just a pathetic bully."  
To her surprise, he nodded. "Maybe I am. But at least I'm honest about it."  
Her eyes narrowed. "What?"  
"I'm a bully. Sure. I know it. But so are you -- but you lie to yourself, hide from the truth. Who's the one who's pathetic?"  
"I am _not_ like you!"  
"Yeah? Funny. I've seen the guys you hang around with. You ever think twice about grinding them down? Humiliating them and hurting them whenever they even slightly annoy you? 'Course not!" He made a sudden, wide gesture, taking in the silent, straining crowd surrounding them. "Now look around. Look at those wimps, those little shits. They're afraid of me, of what I can do, and they do what I want 'cus of that fear. Now do you _really_ think they fear you any less? Idiot. You're kidding yourself. Did you think they were your _friends_?"  
"They _are_ my friends!" insisted Ranma.  
Ryuta stared down at her for a long moment, before one corner of his smile twisted up in a sneer. "I just realized how well that body suits you. You're a coward, Saotome."  
"Am I? Challenge me and find out, asshole!"  
He looked at her for a moment, then laughed. "I couldn't. I don't fight girls," he said, loudly, and turned away.  
The words resounded through Ranma's mind, Ryuta's patronizing laugh a taunt, his turned back an insult. She felt her fist clench convulsively by her side. "I'm a MAN!" she yelled after him. "You hear me? I'm more a man than you'll ever be!" No one turns their back on her, her mind screamed, not while she was still standing, not after insulting her like that -- not Ryoga, not Mousse, not Kuno, and most certainly not a pathetic, weak, _lying_ little bastard bully like Ryuta Uehara! "Come back here and face me like one! I'll show you how much of a man I really am!"  
He paused, and after a beat, slowly turned around to face her. Ranma could feel the tension around her, everyone holding their breath. And then he smiled, and gave her the most infuriatingly condescending look. "Cute, ain't she?" he smirked. "Must be that time of the month."  
Sudden shame possessed her, so intense it nearly brought tears to her eyes. It quickly transformed into anger and hatred. She flowed forward, riding the fury, feral grin and furious eyes lighting her face, animalistic gleeful snarl escaping her lips. Her tormenter could not follow, he was slow, far, far too slow to react in time. His tentative guard was knocked away, yanked forward, her other hand latching onto his armpit, fingers and thumb digging into muscle viciously, leg hooking in, snapping straight, breaking his stance. She could smell the alcohol clinging to him, the sudden fear, feel as he tried to pull away, see the surprise and pain rise in his eyes as he stumbled forward, and then the sudden wince, the eyes almost rolling completely back, as she buried her knee into his crotch. He curled up and collapsed, but still she held him; her grim smile tightened as she smashed her fist forward, downwards, the rush of adrenalin proving that she was a _man_. . . .  
"RANMA!"  
Her fist froze, bottom three knuckles flush against the arc of Ryuta's nose. A sudden coldness and dread seized her stomach, almost painful in its intensity. She glanced down at the arm still held in her right hand, relaxed her hold, saw the line of red jagged marks in the wrist left by her tight grip and nails. Absently releasing the limb, Ranma turned to face Akane.  
"A-- Akane."  
"What are you DOING?" she demanded, stalking forward.  
"It's not my fault!" Ranma protested.  
"How can you _say_ that? Look at you -- bullying that guy!"  
"Bull. . . bullying?" Ranma stepped over Ryuta's crumpled form, her anger shifting to Akane. "The jerk started it!"  
"Like I'm going to believe that! Like I care! You promised me -- no fighting!"  
"I didn't want to! What could I do!"  
"Ignore him! Walk away!"  
"What?" Ranma cried. "Are you stupid? You didn't hear. . . ."  
"What did you call me?" Akane yelled.  
"Oh, so you listen to me _now_, huh?" She yelled back. "Stupid tomboy!"  
"You jerk!" she screamed, her hand lashing out. Ranma felt the all- too familiar pain explode in the side of her face, and staggered slightly. "You just had to ruin my night, didn't you! Everything was going fine, and you just had to screw it up!"  
"But I -- I. . ." But what can I say, thought Ranma, and the anger suddenly drained away. Akane was right. It was unfair -- totally so -- but Akane was right. I broke my promise; I've ruined Akane's night. A groan displaced her attention: Ryuta, clutching his groin, one foot scrabbling in the dirt and vainly trying to stand, to push away. The fight had never been about who was stronger, Ranma suddenly realized. Uehara must have known he could never beat Ranma in a fight. But the fight he had initiated -- the real fight -- Uehara had won hands down. I shouldn't have lost my temper, she berated herself. But what else could I have done? Ryuta had pushed, pushed too much and too far. Ranma was surprised she had managed to hold back as long as she had. She looked around: the other bullies were backing off, obviously frightened now that their leader was down; Hiroshi and the guys were staring at her and Akane, mixed glances of curiosity, amusement, and annoyance; the others watched with surprise at the sudden violence, victory, and words of the strange and small girl, or still in shock as the curse was revealed to them for the first time; and, buried just beneath the surface of it all, did Ranma detect just the slightest glimmer of fear at the unexpected viciousness of her attack -- was Ryuta right?  
And then, turning back to the source of the new conflict, he saw the girls who had followed Akane: Sayuri, glaring at Ranma like she was some kind of bug, the cause of all their friend's problems; the others, obviously annoyed and tired of the whole thing; and finally Akane, disgusted, enraged, sick of her fiancee and angry as usual. Everything was so quiet, everyone looking at Ranma, the party disrupted, the fun ruined. She was not wanted here. She did not belong here. Ryuta was right.  
"Fuck this," muttered Ranma. "I don't know why I bothered."  
She turned her back on them all and walked away.  
  
"Ranma," whispered Akane after a moment of shock, taking a hesitant step toward the pig-tailed girl.  
A hand fell on her shoulder. It was her friend, Sayuri. "Don't bother, Akane," she said. "There's no point. You'll just end up fighting, you know you will. Give her a chance to cool down."  
"But. . . ."  
"Didn't you come here to have a good time?" Sayuri waited a moment, until Akane nodded glumly. "Well, it's not going to happen if you chase after Ranma. This is your night out, isn't it? Then let her sulk! Maybe she'll come back and apologize -- though I doubt it -- but why worry?"  
Akane looked after Ranma's retreating form. She could hear the whispering around her; maybe it had not been Ranma's fault, after all. But Ranma had promised! And yet. . . and yet, he had seemed so tired, so sick of the fighting and the arguing, so open and hurt right before turning away. Should she go after him?  
"Hey, look!" Sayuri's hand suddenly grabbed Akane's. "My friend from Tomobiki just got here! C'mon, you just gotta meet her! I know you'll just get along great!" Akane found herself being dragged back into the house.  
She spared a last look outside after Ranma; he was already gone.  
  
When he caught up, she was already stepping out onto the street, heavy iron gate about to clang shut behind her. She paused for a moment and stared down at the ground, one hand holding the gate open; then, with a shaking of her head, she seemed to come to a decision. She moved away from the house.  
"Ranma! Wait!" shouted Hiroshi.  
The redhead hesitated for a moment, and stopped. She did not turn around, but allowed Hiroshi to catch up, stopping the gate from closing with one foot.  
"Ranma," he started, slightly winded.  
"What do you want?" she said, and sighed, sparing him a brief glance. He was surprised at the look on her face -- never had he seen Ranma like this, never seen a depressed nor tired side to her. Was this what she was like outside of school? Or at home? I really don't know much about her, he suddenly realized.  
"I. . . don't go, Ranma," said Hiroshi. "You don't have to leave."  
"You're right, Hiroshi. I don't _have_ to leave." She turned away from him. "I _want_ to leave."  
"But. . . ."  
"But what?" she interrupted in a tired voice. "What's the use of staying? So I can start another fight? Piss off Akane again? Maybe ruin the night for everybody else, too? Yeah. Good idea, Hiroshi, just great." She gave him one last look through the bars of the gate, then stepped away.  
Hiroshi watched as his friend left. Damn, but it wasn't fair, he thought. For once, it really had not been her fault; for once, everybody _wanted_ her to beat up the jerk. If she had not been there, Ryuta would have doubtlessly started the fight with somebody else -- and probably won as well. Maybe the party had been disrupted, a bit, but at least no one had been hurt! No, decided Hiroshi, Ranma was not going to leave that easily. She deserved to have fun, too, once in a while. He slipped through the gate and ran up behind his friend.  
She tensed as Hiroshi pulled her back with a hand on her shoulder. "What do you think you're doing?" she demanded.  
"I'm stopping you from leaving, Ranma. What happened back there wasn't your fault, no matter what anyone says! If you hadn't been there. . . well, Ryuta probably would've beat up Daisuke earlier, and picked a fight with someone else, anyway!"  
Ranma shrugged her shoulders. "Probably. So what? I'm not leaving 'cus of the fight, Hiroshi. I'm not even leaving 'cus of Akane." Hiroshi noticed her face darkened as she spoke the last name.  
"You're not?"  
"Nah." She shook her head, and sighed. "But I realized something, right after. I looked around, Hiroshi. Looked at everybody, looking at me. And Akane. And I realized -- I didn't belong there. Maybe Akane does -- she grew up here, she's gone to Furinkan all along, she grew up with these people -- but I don't. The way everybody was looking; not like I was their friend, but. . . but like I was some kinda freak." Her gaze dropped to the ground. "Like some kind of _dangerous_ freak."  
"Hey!" protested Hiroshi. "That's not true!"  
"Isn't it? Maybe. But if not that. . . then I was the guy who's always fighting. Or causing trouble. I'm the cross-dressing pervert, or the Casanova, the guy who's always arguing with his fiancee. Akane and I aren't even a real couple -- we're a sideshow to keep you guys amused." She let out a deep breath and leaned against the outside wall of Kiyoshi's residence. "I just don't fit in, Hiroshi. Those guys in there, everybody. . . they're just not my crowd, I guess."  
"Then who is?"  
"I. . . don't know, Hiroshi. I really don't know."  
He stared at his friend in disbelief. Was Ranma. . . lonely? Hiroshi had trouble reconciling that idea with the attractive young girl before him. Ranma had everything: the good-looks (as both guy and girl), the skill, the strength, the charisma; she had three fiancees, and other gorgeous girls chasing after her; she was engaged to, arguably, the most popular girl in school, and Ranma, herself, was arguably the most popular guy. How could Ranma possibly be depressed? She could have any girl at school, if she wanted, or, for that matter, probably any guy. Try as he might, Hiroshi could not understand. But whether he did or not was not important; his friend was feeling down, and it was his job to cheer her up.  
"Listen, Ranma," he said, after a few moments of silence. "I don't know about all that; maybe you're right, maybe not. But I do know that, before Ryuta came along, you were having a good time. Weren't you?"  
She seemed a little surprised. "Ye. . . yeah, I guess so. . . ."  
"Did you feel out of place? Like you didn't fit in? Didn't seem like it, to me at least. We were talking, you were talking, hell, everybody was laughing and drinking and having a good time! I don't see what the big deal is!"  
"But. . . ."  
"But what? So you had a fight with Akane! So what? You think any one of those guys sitting around the fire hasn't had at least one argument with a girlfriend? So yours are a bit more violent, a bit more. . . vocal; that's just the way you and Akane are!"  
"But. . . ."  
"No," stated Hiroshi, grabbing Ranma's wrist and pulling her towards the party. "No excuses. You're coming back with me. You're having a good time tonight, no matter what!"  
"Hey! Waitasec!" The girl easily slipped her wrist free from his grasp. "Listen, thanks, I appreciate it, but I just _can't_ go back with you!"  
"Why the hell not?" he asked, a little confused.  
"Well, just look at me!"  
He did so. He liked what he saw. "Yeah, so?"  
"I'm a girl, stupid! That group around the fire -- they're all guys. It's an all-guy thing, Hiroshi, and I'm a girl. I don't belong."  
With a snort of disgust he grabbed her wrist again and yanked the gate open with his other hand. "That's a pretty lame excuse, Ranma. You're a guy -- we all know that! We don't care what you look like! And we can get you some hot water from the house, anyway." He noted with some satisfaction that this time, at least, she allowed herself to be pulled forward. She had a thoughtful look on her face, and the slightest of smiles.  
"Ok. Fine," she said. "I'll stay for a little while. But forget the hot water. Akane's in that house -- no way in hell I'm risking bumping into that kawaikunee, violent. . ."  
"Tomboy?" supplied Hiroshi.  
"Yeah. I'll just stay like this."  
"'kay," agreed Hiroshi, leading the way.  
"Oh, and, bud. . . thanks. I appreciate this."  
"No problem, Ranma."  
"And, Hiroshi. . . ."  
"Yeah." "Would you mind letting go of my hand?" He grinned. "Oh. Sorry." They rounded the corner of the house. Before them, the party was once more in full swing. The pool was splashing, the music was blaring, and the guys were sitting around the fire. With a nod in their direction, Hiroshi led the way. "C'mon, Ranma. You won't regret this! We'll make this a night you'll never forget. . . ."  
  
Releasing a sigh, Akane stepped out onto the second floor balcony, looking out over the backyard and the festivities. Damn, she was trying, but she simply felt unable to relax! Stupid Ranma -- leaving like that, leaving her all tense and stressed out and. . . and worried, she added with a frown.  
Why? Why did she let him get to her like that? It was not fair -- he starts the trouble, yet she was the one left feeling guilty. The jerk was probably over at Ukyou's, anyway, eating okonomiyaki, complaining about his 'kawaikunee' fiancee to his 'kawaii' fiancee. Her grip tightened on the railing. Stupid jerk! She glanced back into the house, towards the party noises and her school-friends: the balcony led into the master bedroom, and she noticed for the first time the silhouette of a couple making out on the bed. She blushed and turned away, but for some reason the afterimage remained with her. Akane suddenly realized that she felt. . . envious, of that unknown couple on the bed. Kissing, hugging -- what is it like, she wondered, to be _close_ to someone, a friend, someone who cared for her? But I hate boys!, she reminded herself, but it did nothing to alleviate her melancholy. She tried to imagine her and Ranma in a similar situation, and gave a mirthless laugh. Not likely. Stupid baka.  
Maybe she could go for a swim, she thought, trying to distract herself, then remembered that she would likely drown if she did. She looked down at the pool enviously. One day, maybe. Wandering eyes carried her gaze to the scene of the fight. The fight. What had happened? Had it been Ranma's fault? Whatever had happened, it had left him furious -- she had seen the intensity, the savageness of his assault. Whatever. She did not want to think about it, about Ranma. Sudden movement caught her eye: someone joining the group sitting around the fire the guys had claimed as their own. Rather unfair of them, she thought. But. . . wait! She narrowed her eyes, trying to make out who was sitting by the fire. It was hard, the light was directly behind them, but. . . was that a flash of red hair?  
And then a cry rang out, a chorus of 'KAWAIKUNEE!', and the figure glanced back nervously. Their eyes met -- it was Ranma, laughing. Upon recognizing Akane, his smile faded. A moment passed, and then Ranma frowned and looked away, turning his back to Akane.  
Akane growled in frustration. Here I was, worried!, she thought. And there's the jerk, yukking it up! Well, fine! If he can have fun -- then so can I! With an indignant sniff, she spun away and stormed back into the house, ignoring the motions on the bed as she passed them by.  
  
"Quiet," hissed Ranma. "You tryin' to get me killed?"  
The guys looked at each other for a moment, and as a group, shouted: "KAWAIKUNEE!", which quickly degenerated into a fit of somewhat-drunken giggling. Hiroshi watched in amusement as Ranma, laughing as well, glanced around nervously. For a moment she froze, staring up at the house; Hiroshi followed her gaze and thought he caught a glimpse of Akane. When Ranma turned back to the fire, she was frowning.  
"Hey, what is it?" he asked, nudging her. The conversation carried on without them, Daisuke desperately trying to convince the guys that _he_ had dumped his ex-girlfriend, and not the other way around.  
"Nothin'," muttered Ranma in response. A moment later she turned to Hiroshi with an intense look in her eyes. "Listen. . . do you have any of that beer left?"  
"Uh, yeah, I guess," he answered, surprised.  
"Would'ya mind if I borrowed some? I'll pay you back, I promise."  
"Don't worry about it." He pulled one out, but hesitated before handing it over. "Are you sure you want one?"  
She nodded. Almost reluctantly, he gave Ranma the beer. She immediately popped it open and sucked down half the bottle in a single swig; it seemed Ranma drank the same way she did everything else -- wholeheartedly. When she came up for air her face wrinkled in a grimace.  
"What, you don't like?" asked Daisuke, leaning over. She shrugged and took another drink.  
"Say. . . you ever drink before, Ranma?" asked Hiroshi, still a little worried. He had the sudden feeling that maybe Ranma was not in the best of moods to be drinking.  
"Yup," she answered. "Remember that stupid Romeo and Juliet play from way-back?" Hiroshi and Daisuke, and a few of the other guys who were listening, nodded. "Remember that bottle of sake Kuno poured down my throat?"  
"Oh yeah!" said Daisuke. "So, what, that was your first time drinking?"  
"Well, as a girl, anyway," answered Ranma.  
Daisuke looked at his friend and shrugged. It was not like Ranma needed him to look after her or anything -- she could take care of herself, realized Hiroshi. He was not too sure why it was bothering him; it was just that he had this nagging feeling that maybe she should not be drinking -- at least not until she got things squared with Akane. That brought a grin to his face; if Ranma waited for _that_, she would _never_ get to drink! With a shake of his head he decided to let it go, and instead of worrying he sat back comfortably and drank a bit more, and listened. The name of Kuno had come up, and everyone was taking potshots at the oh-so- well-respected Blue Thunder. Ranma, in particular, had some rather caustic things to add, growing in vehemence as she started her second beer (this one donated by Daisuke). Seemed she was quite tired of being groped by him, fondled by him, and having flowers sent to her. When asked why she did not just tell him who she was, or tell him she was not interested, or just beat him up, she responded that she had tried all three, several times, sometimes simultaneously -- but he just refused to understand. There was a general laugh at Kuno's expense, and the conversation moved on.  
The time flew quickly. They talked, they laughed, they drank, wood was piled on the fire as it started to burn low. From time to time someone would leave, or someone new would join, and in a few instances the newcomer was not from Furinkan; Ranma would draw a few odd stares from them, but they quickly learnt that this lone girl was 'one of the guys' and that there really was no reason to treat her differently from anyone else sitting around the fire (in fact, she rather vehemently insisted that they did not). One stranger actually made the mistake of hitting on her; _that_ had been good for a laugh, as Ranma (once she figured out what the guy was doing) shifted from extreme embarrassment to righteous anger and promptly booted him away. There were brief lulls, occasionally, especially after someone mentioned something particularly deep or moving (or what passed as such after a few drinks), but eventually conversation would start up again. And no matter what range of topics they passed through -- be it school, teachers, parents, sports, martial arts (initiated by Ranma, of course), Nerima, plans for the future -- they would always invariably return to the opposite sex. And so they talked, and drank.  
One particular comment caught Hiroshi's attention. Kiyoshi -- the party-thrower himself -- had joined the group for a moment, and was complaining loudly about his girlfriend, Kaori. He was not all that popular of a guy, aside for his parties, but since he was the host, everyone listened politely.  
". . .and so she cancelled on me! Just like that! Broke the date! And do you know why? I can't believe this -- she ruined a perfectly good date I'd been planning for weeks, and I lost the reservation money and everything! -- she said she couldn't come out because of cramps! -- because of her period! She said it hurt too much!" he said, ending by mimicking a girlish whining voice. "As if! I know girls hafta deal with that crap, but as if it hurts that much! If she just didn't want to go out with. . . ."  
"Oh, shut up!" interrupted Ranma, sounding disgusted. "You don't gotta clue what you're talkin' about, okay?"  
"Huh?" responded Kiyoshi, obviously wondering, somewhat drunkenly, who had interrupted him.  
"If Kaori said it hurt that much, believe her, 'kay? 'Cus it does -- it can. Sometimes it ain't so bad -- and some other times, well. . . it is. You ain't never felt it, Kiyoshi -- it bites, man. It really, really sucks."  
"And how would you know, huh?"  
Ranma glared at him evenly. "Think about it, moron."  
He did so, for a moment, and his eyes widened. "Oh. Ohhhh, oh yeah. I. . . forgot," he ended lamely, and soon left. An uncomfortable silence was left in his wake, during which Hiroshi leaned towards Ranma. She was staring down at the ground, blushing furiously, perhaps suddenly realizing that maybe she'd admitted a bit more than she'd cared to.  
"So, you mean, you, ah. . . ."  
She nodded mutely.  
"And it, ah, hurts?"  
"Yeah. Sometimes."  
"Sheesh. I never, ah, realized that, you know. . . ."  
She shrugged. "It's not something I like to talk about, obviously. It's. . . it's kinda embarrassing; I'm a guy, but I gotta deal with that crap." With a depressed sigh she drooped a bit, finger tracing an abstract doodle in the dirt. "Hell, if it was just the pain, it wouldn't be so bad -- I'm used to pain, I can take it no problem; it's the other stuff. The blood and other shit. Or the way it makes me feel, right before. It really sucks."  
"My girlfriend says that sometimes it makes her cry, for no reason," supplied a classmate from across the fire. "Well, sometimes, anyway."  
Ranma raised her head and glared at him. "I _don't_ cry!" she insisted. "Men don't cry." Then she softened slightly. "But, yeah, I've seen Akane act that way a few times. Really had me confused 'till I figured what was wrong with her -- 'till I felt it myself. Well, kinda -- it doesn't hit me that way; but I can still tell, I know it's affecting me, I find myself acting. . . weird, sometimes, reacting in ways I know ain't normal for me. It scares me."  
Hiroshi looked at his friend with some surprise, as Ranma returned suddenly unseeing stare to the dancing flames. He had had no idea about any of this; everyone knew that Ranma hated turning into a girl, was desperate to do anything to get rid of the curse -- but it had never occurred to Hiroshi that it affected her this deeply, so profoundly. . . that it _scared_ her.  
"That's when it really hit me. . . ." Hiroshi suddenly realized that Ranma was still talking, hardly above a whisper, more to herself than anyone. He doubted that anybody else could hear. "When it happened the first time. I was still in China, and there hadn't been any hot water for a while. When the cramps started, I ignored them -- I figured it was the strange food, or something. And if I was a bit short tempered, or depressed -- well, I figured I had every reason to be. But then the bleeding started. It freaked me right out. Pop wasn't much help, either: first he was ashamed of me, and then, when he actually explained it, he messed it up and ended up scaring me worse. But that's when I first truly realized it -- I was a girl. In every way. Every month, it reminds me of what I am -- every month, it scares me, and makes me wonder if I'm a little less a man, if a little more of me has slipped away, has. . . has bled away." And then suddenly Ranma was looking right at him, eyes burning in the firelight, very serious. "I don't know why I'm telling you this, Hiroshi. But I'm trusting you, man. I. . . I don't want anyone else knowing about this stuff."  
Stunned, Hiroshi could only numbly nod his head. He was not sure how he felt. Did he even want to know about all this? But he could not help but feel a little honoured that Ranma would share something this deep, this personal with him. Sure, the alcohol had probably been largely responsible, but this still meant something. He wondered if Ranma had even shared these feelings with Akane -- if she even could.  
When he looked back up, Ranma was answering another question. That moment, that look, when she had been whispering and baring her fears to him, was gone. There was the same slight roughness, that cocky self- confident if somewhat discomfitted attitude that he used with the other guys.  
"Sheesh. Can't we just let it drop?" She was saying. "Yeah, I learnt to keep track of that stupid cycle -- my stupid cycle. I had to suffer through a crash course in feminine hygiene, how to use all that stuff and clean myself and everything. I think I woulda died if it hadn't been Kasumi doin' the teaching. Can you imagine Akane showin' me?" Ranma gave a grim chuckle and took a drink -- a long one.  
"What about your mom? My mom showed my sister all that stuff," asked someone.  
Hiroshi was not sure if anyone noticed the flash of pain that crossed her face, or the sudden tightening of her grip on her bottle. "No," she answered in a voice that sounded strained. "My mom. . . isn't around."  
"Oh."  
There was a moment's silence. Someone elbowed the guy who had asked the offending question, and there was a hurried exchange of angry mutterings. Ranma did not seem to notice, submerged in a sudden melancholy. Then she snapped out of it and forced a smile to her lips. "So. Yeah. There ya have it. The bottom line is: it sucks. Tho' I've got it easier than most girls, I guess -- after all, if I can get my hands on some hot water, it all just goes away." Then she muttered something about stupid rain, stupid curses and stupider fathers, and took another drink.  
A hesitant question interrupted her complaining. "So. . . ah. . . what does, you know, it feel like?"  
She opened her mouth to answer, then closed it. She ended up just kind of waving her hand around uselessly in a gesture meant to convey something she could not explain. "I. . . I don't know. You couldn't understand. It's well. . . well, you feel it in. . . damn. You just don't got the right bits, you know?" A couple of the guys suddenly looked queasy at that, and finally let it drop. But Hiroshi had one last question, which he asked in a subdued voice.  
"Ranma, if you have, you know. . . ."  
"Yeah."  
"Then I guess that means that, as a girl, you've got, you know, all the. . . parts, right?"  
She stared at him for a moment before nodding. "Yeah."  
"So that means that, ah, theoretically speaking, you could, you know, get. . . ."  
"I don't like to think about that," she said, glaring at him. "And neither should you."  
Hiroshi wisely decided to drop the subject. It took several moments for everyone to pick up again, but eventually people were talking, obviously trying to not think about Ranma's little admission. She seemed all too happy to let it go and drink some more. She did not stay quiet for long, however, as Toshi, who had disappeared for a while, returned and sat down.  
"So, Ranma. . ." he asked from across the fire, his speech slurred. "You never. . . you didn't tell us. . . which girl it was you liked. . . thought was cutest!"  
The redhead blushed, her face already rather flushed from drinking and her last contribution to the conversation. She had a slightly glazed look to her eyes. She looked at the ground in embarrassment, and mumbled something unintelligible.  
"Huh?" asked the guy next to her, prodding her. "We didn't get that."  
"Ah. . . aka. . . Akane," she muttered, then glared defiantly (if somewhat unsteadily) at everyone.  
"I knew it!" cried the group, more or less in unison. "She _does_ like her!"  
"Hey!" she exclaimed. "I didn't say that! I didn't! I only said she was cute!"  
"Sure, whatever!"  
"No! S'true! And only when she smiles! And 'specially not when she's chasin' me and tryin' to beat me or cook me somethin'!" Her protests were overridden by laughter, and after a moment of false anger, she joined in. Around that time Daisuke plopped down heavily next to Hiroshi.  
"Hey man, where were you?" asked Hiroshi, dropping out of the conversation. Ranma was still protesting loudly his feelings for Akane.  
Daisuke smiled. "Just checkin' on something. For later," he said, then nodded towards the group. "What's up?"  
"Nothin' much," smirked Hiroshi. "Ranma just admitted that she likes Akane."  
"What!" cried Daisuke. "And I missed it! Shit!"  
"Yo, Daisuke!" called out Ranma, drawing both guys back into the talk. "What about you? Which girl you like? Which one you think's the cutest?"  
Hiroshi watched as his friend blushed, looking away. He was curious himself -- Daisuke never really spoke about it much. Except. . . Hiroshi caught the brief, momentary sideways glance that his friend tried to hide, and suddenly, he knew. He had almost forgotten, actually: all the little looks Daisuke secretly threw her way, the occasional subdued comment, the mild infatuation he seemed to have. He could not help it -- Hiroshi burst out in laughter.  
"What? What is it? You know?" asked Ranma.  
"Oh yeah! I know!" he chortled.  
"Who?"  
"Oh, good choice, my friend!" he said, slapping his friend on the back. "Excellent taste in women, I must say!"  
"Who is it?" asked Kenji, echoed by the others. "She good looking?"  
"You betcha! You even know her -- she's at this party!"  
"Really?" The guys started craning their necks, looking about to see what had clued Hiroshi in. "Where is she?" Next to him Daisuke was shaking his head, a slightly panicked look on his face, but Hiroshi ignored him.  
"Oh, she's closer than you think. In fact -- you could say she's right here. . . sitting with us!"  
There was a brief silence, and then everybody's eyes slowly turned to Ranma. She looked around in confusion for a moment, then down at herself, then back up at the group. Her eyes widened in shock. "What, me?"  
The guys looked among themselves for a moment, then shrugged. "Hell, Daisuke's got a point."  
"Yeah. Cute face."  
"A redhead! With long hair!"  
"Nice legs."  
"Hot bod."  
Ranma stared for a moment in disbelief as they laughed. The oddest expression crossed her face, profound embarrassment struggling with a certain perverse pride. Apparently, ego was the stronger of the two as a glimmer entered her eye. "What? Guys. . . I'm. . . I'm hurt!" she said, arching her back slightly, reaching down and cupping her breasts, lifting them a bit. "You forgot to mention how stacked I am!" She grinned and took a drink.  
A couple of guys spurted out their drink when they saw her response; a few looked a little uncomfortable, squirming slightly, as Ranma lifted her hands behind her head and showed off her curves, still grinning. For a moment no one seemed to know exactly what to say, until Hiroshi lifted his bottle. "Uhhh. . . yeah." he said, but then after a moment's thought he smiled wickedly and added: "She's got a point! We weren't doing her justice!" He turned to her and bowed slightly. "On behalf of everyone here, I apologize." Then, returning his attention to everyone else, he continued. "And on that note, I think we have a winner, don't you think?"  
There was a brief exchange of glances, at first confused but quickly clearing up, and soon everyone's grin matched Hiroshi's. There was general nodding all around, except from Ranma who appeared somewhat confused. "Huh? Winner? What for?" she asked, stopping her impromptu modelling.  
Hiroshi smiled as he explained. "Well, you see. . . every year, when Kiyoshi throws this party of his, there's a tradition we guys follow ('tradition?' someone added, 'it's only the second time!'): after much deliberation ('and drinking!' someone else added), we, the men of Furinkan High, declare the official hottest babe of Furinkan. And you, Ranma, by unanimous vote, have been declared that babe! Congratulations!"  
There was a round of applause, and then Daisuke stood up. "Well, that's done," he declared. "Time for a swim, I think." There was a quick chorus of agreement, and everybody leapt to their feet, some more unsteadily than other. They were halfway to the pool change-room before they realized they had left Ranma behind, still sitting stunned by the fire.  
  
"The guys are going swimming! Let's go join 'em!" exclaimed Sayuri, turning from the window and back to her friends. A small group of them -- Yuka, Hiromi, Keiko, Akane, Akemi -- were lounging around one of the rooms of the house, loud and annoying pop music blaring from the far end of the room (but changing every few minutes as two guys clustered around the stereo continuously switched the CDs). The current topic died as they responded with vigorous nodding.  
"You coming?" asked Yuka.  
Akane shook her head. She sank back into the sofa, feeling strangely depressed and out of place. Somehow, her friends' conversation had seemed less interesting, the gossip dull, their problems and complaints relatively minor. Why? What had changed in her life, that these classmates, friends for years, suddenly became less appealing to her? All she knew is that suddenly, at one point, she found herself wishing that Ukyou -- of all people! -- had been able to come.  
"Why not? Didn't you bring a swimsuit? I thought you brought that red one. It looks good on you, you know. Very sexy! Red is definitely your colour! Akane?"  
Akane sighed. Yuka was a good friend, but, as she had recently discovered, annoyingly talkative when drunk. Most of her other friends were a little drunk by now as well; Akane was the only one who had refused anything to drink. She wasn't too sure why. She had never really experimented with alcohol much in the past and, somehow, tonight had not felt like the night to start -- problems with Ranma notwithstanding. "Yes, Yuka," she answered. "I did bring it -- you kind of forced me to, remember?"  
Yuka giggled and nodded. "That's right!"  
"But I don't think I'm going to go swimming. I. . . don't feel like it." I don't feel like drowning or embarrassing myself, she mentally added.  
"Aw, c'mon, Akane!" begged her friend. "You haven't even had a chance to show it off!"  
Another sigh. "I'm sorry," she said. "I guess I'm just not in a partying mood." She gave a slight grin. "Maybe I can get Ranma to model it. . ."  
"That's mean!" Her friend giggled again, then frowned mockingly. "But. . . she'd probably look better 'an us! We can't have her drawing the guys away, now can we?"  
"No, I guess not." She suddenly felt annoyed at the idea that Ranma probably _would_ look better in the red two-piece than she would. Now there was a problem her friends probably never had to deal with -- having a boyfriend who looked better in your clothes than you did! She frowned. As for drawing the boys away -- heck, he had spent the whole night with them, not even bothering to stop by and check up on her once. That jerk. She spends the night worrying about him, hoping to catch him sneaking in for some hot water, and he never even bothers to show. He must have found his water elsewhere -- would he have remained in his girl-form all night, even with all those guys around? Even he's not that much of a pervert, she decided.  
"So, you're coming?" This time it was Sayuri, pulling off her top. She was already wearing her suit beneath, a nice blue one--piece with a black stripe across the chest, the midriff left bare. It accentuated her body nicely.  
Akane stood up from her place on the couch. "Thanks, really," she said. "But. . . no. I'm feeling kind of tired." She looked around at her friends. She felt a small hurt when she realized that none of them looked all that surprised, or disappointed. Had she really been that much of a drag all night?  
"You sure?"  
"Yeah." She nodded. "I. . . I guess I'll just head home. See you on Monday?"  
They nodded. After a moment of hesitation she turned away, somehow feeling that she had missed out on something tonight.  
  
"Hey! I might be drunk -- but I'm not _that_ drunk!" exclaimed the pig--tailed girl, maybe a little too loudly. "You perverts just wanna see me without my top on!"  
"Aw, c'mon, Ranma!" insisted one of the guys crowding around her, while a few others snickered. They were all changed into swimming trunks and were headed for the pool, towels wrapped around waists or hanging over shoulders. It was Hiroshi who had first noticed that Ranma, with a slightly disconsolate and wistful look, was not following them. When asked why she was not coming, it turned out that for obvious reasons she had not thought to bring a girl's bathing suit -- and was not about to go swimming in her clothes, or without a top (despite several lewd suggestions to that effect).  
She gave a crooked little smile but shook her head. "Sorry guys. I guess I'm out."  
"Are you sure, Ranma?" asked Hiroshi, nodding in the direction of the pool. "Sure looks tempting, ne?" The party was still going strong, but the pool had quieted down slightly since earlier in the evening. Already a few of the guys, shrugging, had left the discussion and made their way over to the water. With a drunken howl Toshi launched himself off of the low diving-board and cannonballed next to a small group of girls calmly talking by the edge of the pool, eliciting a few outraged shrieks. Giggling, he fled from their ferocious retaliatory barrage of splashing.  
Ranma gave a sad nod. "Yeah. But that doesn't change anything." She gave a small sigh. "Listen. Hiroshi -- don't worry about it. It's not the first time I miss out on somethin' 'cus of my curse, 'kay? I'm used to it."  
"But. . . ."  
"Nah. Listen. It's not a big deal, really. It's getting late, anyway. Maybe I oughta just head home." She glanced down at the mostly empty beer bottle in her hand. It was her third -- no, fourth. Fifth? "I've probably drunk enough as it is."  
"Couldn't you just, you know," tried Hiroshi, gesturing around the party, "just, ah, borrow a bikini or a t-shirt or something from one of the girls?"  
"Bikini?" asked Ranma, raising an eyebrow.  
"Uhhh. . . you know what I mean!"  
"Right." She tried a grin -- one that almost, but not quite, masked an odd sadness lurking in her eyes -- and placed her hands on her hips. "I think you're just trying to keep Furinkan's 'best babe' around!" And then, a moment later, suddenly serious, she asked, "Why are you tryin' to keep me around, Hiroshi? Not that I don't appreciate it, but. . . why do you care?"  
"Because you're a friend, dammit!" exclaimed Hiroshi. "What do you think?" They were alone standing by the change-rooms, all the other guys having already moved on to the swimming pool. A small halogen light flickered from its hook on the wall, a moth sending disproportionate shadows scuttling across them. "I'm just trying to look out for you, man! You've never come out with us before, I just wanted you to have a good time -- to be one of the guys!"  
She smirked and glanced down at herself. "One of the guys -- with these?" she said, gesturing at her breasts.  
"Enough with the curse already! I already told you -- it doesn't matter!"  
"But it does matter, Hiroshi."  
"No, it. . . ."  
"Yes it _does_," interrupted Ranma. "Maybe not to you, Hiroshi! But to them, the other guys, the girls at this party, to almost _everybody_, it does! Sure, most of them know that I'm a guy, that I'm really a man, but they don't _care_. Maybe you don't notice -- can't notice. But they act differently when I'm a girl. They do! When we were all talking, sure, they tried, they pretended I was just 'one-of-the-guys', but they didn't believe it; I didn't either, even though the beer helped. I could see it in their eyes, the way they looked at me, looked me over -- not as another guy, but as. . . well, as the 'best babe'! No -- it's worse than that. The guys here at the party, those who don't know I'm really a guy, that I'm cursed, at least they're honest! They really think I'm a girl, and treat me like one, approach me like one. But the others, those who know what I am -- they _still_ look at me that way. Sometimes I think they're more interested in my girl-body simply _because_ they know I'm really a guy. Maybe they see somethin' in me that they. . . oh, I don't know! Maybe they think it makes me more of a challenge, or somethin', to them: which guy'll be the one to get Ranma in touch with his feminine side?" She gave a little snort of disgust.  
"That's not true!" retorted Hiroshi.  
Ranma shook her head. "Ah, hell, Hiroshi. Look at me! Of course they're interested! You heard 'em back there! I'm hot! A babe! Sure, maybe they were joking, maybe it was all in fun, but they still meant it! Every word. A joke? Maybe -- but I was just startin' to really feel like one of the guys, for maybe the first time, until you pointed out Daisuke's little interest. It just reminded me: I'll never be 'one of the guys', not as long as I've got this curse. And you don't know what it's like, man. Having guys look you over: breasts, legs, hips, butt, sizing you up. Have you ever had a guy talk to your chest, had a man stare at your ass when you walk buy? I'm almost used to it now -- which kinda scares me -- but it still makes me feel queasy when I notice." She sank down onto a convenient bench with a sigh, beer bottle dangling limply from one hand. She passed one hand tiredly across her face. When she looked back at Hiroshi, her eyes glimmered with -- something, some emotion. Hiroshi could not tell what. They certainly could not be tears -- not from Ranma.  
"I can hear 'em, too, you know," she continued. "I've heard the guys talking over the last year. Some think I'm a jerk. Fine. At least they're talking about _me_. It's when they start referring to my girl side that it bothers me. When they refer to it. . . rudely." She shuddered. "I've even heard 'em say they'd be happy if I _never_ turned back to a guy, if I was stuck like this forever." Her fist clenched spasmodically. "They. . . they would just curse me, leave me like this, without. . . without. . . ."  
She let out a deep breath. "Ah, shit, I'm sorry, Hiroshi. I don't mean to lay all this on ya. I'm not even sure why I'm talkin' about it. I'm exaggerating. It doesn't really bug me that much. Really." Her head sank back until it rested against the smooth wood of the changing room wall. Her eyes flickered, closed, and she sighed.  
Hiroshi slumped onto the far end of the bench, one arm draped over the edge. A certain awkwardness fell upon him. This was a whole new side to Ranma, a vulnerable, pained side that, he suspected, very few had ever seen. But what could he say? How could he possibly understand what the curse felt like, what it felt like to change into, to _be_, a girl? A certain guilt gnawed at him: Ranma had excluded him from her generalization concerning guys, and how they treated her -- but was he really any different? Even now, looking at her -- laying on the bench, slightly turned towards him, smooth curve of the neck, slight straining, pulling, tautness of the shirt across rounded breasts, a slight glimpse, maybe, of flesh where a tie had come undone, knowing that beneath she would not be wearing a bra -- he felt a familiar stirring, similar to what he would feel gazing at any attractive woman. No. He gave his head a firm shake. This was his _friend_, a man, just like him, it was the alcohol making him feel that way, making her seem so defenceless; and yet the urge was there, the image, of leaning over, drawing her into a comforting embrace, allowing her to release her pent-up sorrow, and then. . . .  
"Is this what most parties are like?"  
He started. "Ah. . . huh?" He felt the blood rush to his cheeks. Her eyes were open, half-lidded, staring upwards. They flicked his way, briefly. Sounds of merriment floated over from the pool.  
"Just askin' a question. Are most parties like this?"  
"What do you mean?"  
She sat up slightly, turning to face him, drawing one leg up beneath her. "Well. . . like this. Just two guy. . . er, two people, sitting around, talkin'."  
Hiroshi smiled. "Yeah. Well, the good ones, anyway." He swirled the little bit of sake left in his little bottle, then downed it in a gulp.  
"Really?"  
"Yeah." He nodded. "The dancing and group stuff and partying is all fine, but for me, any good party has a time when a guy and his friend -- maybe a few buddies -- just kinda break away and talk, you know?" He chuckled. "Bond, I guess. It's what guys. . . ." He hesitated. "It's what we do."  
Ranma finished off her drink, then proceeded to idly twirl the bottle at the tip of one finger. "Ah," she answered. After a moment, she added, "It's just that, you know, I haven't really been to too many parties."  
"Really?"  
"Yeah."  
"Not even on your birthday?"  
"Nah. Not for the last few years. Training."  
"That sucks."  
She shrugged. "I guess."  
Silence, contemplative. Ranma spun her bottle a few more times before snapping it into the air with a flick of her wrist, deftly snagging it, and setting it down on the ground. She sighed again and pulled her legs up to her chest. She wrapped her arms around her knees and hugged them close. She shivered.  
No, decided Hiroshi, it was just too difficult. Ranma was a friend, a guy, a buddy; she was also a damn good-looking girl, cute, and seeing her curled up in the corner of the bench, he felt this stupid urge to offer her his jacket or something. Dammit, he berated himself. Just forget it. You're here to help her. She trusts you. Don't betray that trust. He gave his head a shake and decided that, for now, just looking away might be a better idea.  
But when he glanced back, Ranma had leaned forward a bit, chin resting on one knee, gazing at him speculatively. It was a cute pose, attractive. A curious half-grin played across her face. "You can't do it, can ya?" she asked.  
"Uh. . . ah, huh?" he stammered.  
"See me as a guy." She shrugged. "Don't worry 'bout it, pal. It's not a big deal."  
He shook his head unconvincingly in denial. "No, but. . . of course I know you're a guy!"  
"Really?" she breathed. Ranma snaked forward smoothly, uncurling, sliding across the bench towards her friend. Her eyes burned with a sudden passion; their mesmerizing half-lidded sultriness ensnared Hiroshi. He sat, frozen, surprised, heart pounding in his chest. With a sinuous, swift movement she rose above him, artificial light silhouette, one hand resting firmly against the back of the bench for support, the other held loosely behind her neck. Her back arched slightly, top tie of her shirt slowly, accidentally unravelling; she peered down at him, lips curved in a pouting half-smile. "What," she purred huskily, "you don't find me. . . attractive?"  
"I. . . I. . . ," stammered a flustered Hiroshi.  
"See?" She giggled, eyes clouding momentarily, and she drew away, pulling her legs up again and scooted back to her end of the bench. Her gaze drifted off into the distance for a few moments, contemplatively, and when she turned back to her friend, her voice was serious. "Listen, Hiroshi," she said, "don't worry about it. The only guys I know who can ignore my curse are the ones who wanna kill me. I'd rather have a confused friend than an indifferent enemy." She seemed to debate whether to add something, but fell silent.  
After a moment's indecision, staring at the girl across from him, he hung his head. "I. . . I'm sorry, Ranma." A slight queasiness formed in his stomach. Though he may academically understand that Ranma was really a guy, his body had had a pointedly physical reaction to her sudden closeness - one he was still shamefacedly trying to conceal, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. If I'm attracted to him, he thought worriedly, what does that mean about me? Hiroshi suddenly had an inkling of what Ranma must feel every time she underwent a change, every time a man looked her over and deemed her attractive.  
There was a rustling as Ranma uncurled and sat up straight. "Ah, c'mon man, I said don't worry about it! S'not your fault I'm such a hot little number!" she said, smiling wryly.  
Hiroshi returned the grin. "You know, egotism like that can get you hated."  
"Bah. Who cares? I've already got plenty of rivals -- what's a few more?"  
"If you say so." Hiroshi gave a little laugh. "Hey, you know, I just realized something."  
"Yeah?"  
"Yeah. If I'd been talking to any other girl for this long -- especially alone like this -- Sayuri would've killed me for sure!" He grinned. "See! People might treat ya a bit different. . . but, heck, they know you're not a _real_ girl!" Pretty lame consolation, but it was something. Beside, Hiroshi was starting to feel good again. He hopped to his feet. Looking over at the pool, he saw that some of the girls had joined the gang. Sayuri was lightly stepping around the edge of the pool, avoiding the good-humoured threatening splashes of her friends. He turned back to his friend, who once again looked slightly disconsolate. "Ranma, I'm. . . ."  
She smiled and nodded. "Yeah. Go swim, Hiroshi. Have fun."  
"You sure I can't convince. . . ."  
"Nah."  
"I think I understand why, now," he said.  
After a moment, she gave a slight nod. "Maybe you do."  
He took a few steps away when her voice called him back. "And Hiroshi. . . ."  
"Yeah?"  
"Thanks."  
He gave her a long, serious look. "Any time, man." He placed an emphasis on the last word. "Any time."  
"Thanks." There was a pause. Hiroshi almost stepped away again. Ranma's voice made him hesitate. "It's just. . . I don't know what's with me tonight. All this talking. Whining. It's not me. I _never_ complain like this."  
"It's not whining, Ranma," said Hiroshi.  
"Whatever. But it's not me."  
He shrugged. "Ah, gee, Ranma, you've been drinking! You're just a bit drunk, is all."  
"Really?" One foot prodded the empty bottle sitting next to the bench.  
"Yeah." He looked at her. "You've never really been drunk before, have you?"  
She shook her head. "Aside from that play? Not really."  
"Then don't worry about it. Some people get violent. Some people get silly. You -- well, you seem to get melancholy, or kinda serious, or something. Introspective. Heck, you might as well enjoy it!" Another splash and shriek escaped from the pool. Someone had just picked up and thrown Sayuri into the pool. Ranma noticed his glance.  
"Listen, you go," she said. "I'll see ya on Monday at school."  
Hiroshi nodded, flashed her a smile, and stepped away. He thought he heard her whisper something, before the splashing and laughing and talking drowned her out: "I don't like being drunk; I don't like thinking."  
  
She curled up into a ball again, alone. Chin resting on knee, eyes closed, Ranma's mind wandered. Hiroshi was right. Something about the slight fuzziness she felt, the detachment brought on by the alcohol, relaxed her, left her. . . open. More likely to talk. Not good. It was a weakness, something she knew one of her many rivals would probably use to their advantage. Ryoga, if he ever found out, would probably try to embarrass her in front of Akane, try to take her away. She smiled mirthlessly. Amazing, how easy it was to admit that she liked her, when drunk. No, she decided, I really don't like drinking.  
Yet there was so much more she had been tempted to mention and say, things a little nagging voice in the back of her head had forbid. This same voice warned that consequences would follow from what she had already foolishly told the guys -- come Monday and school, there was bound to be teasing, ribbing, mocking, laughter, locker-room pranks and menstruation jokes. Somehow, it had been easy to ignore the admonishing voice back then; worse, she knew with another beer or two, other topics -- deep- grounded fears for her masculinity, of her sexuality, her true feelings for Akane -- would no longer arouse its anxiety. She shivered.  
She stood up suddenly. A sudden wave of dizziness struck her, but she overcame it quickly. She grinned. I guess I'm not all that drunk after all, she thought to herself, heading back toward the house. There was a slight numbness, a pleasant tingling through her as she walked; it seemed, when she turned her head quickly, that the world took a moment to catch up with her eyes. People passed her by, and smiled, and she smiled back without recognizing most of them. But everything was fine, she was warmly happy, she felt good. . . .  
She shivered again, and her steps faltered, smile slipping. The patio doors leading into the house were right before her; instead, she stepped aside, leaned against the cool brick of the wall and slowly slid to the ground. What was I _thinking_, she asked herself, why did I _do_ that? Joking with Hiroshi, leaning over him playfully seductively -- it had been spurious, a spontaneous act, Hiroshi had seemed so serious and worried. And then. . . .  
Hiroshi had, comically, instinctively, flinched away from her advance. His arm had skipped back, leaving the feathersoft brush of fingertips across the back of her hand. No doubt he was unaware of the contact, but. . . . There had been a. . . jolt, discomfiting pleasure shooting up arm, through chest, rushing to, ending at, in, between her, her. . . . A quick tremulous breath helped her hold down the shaking that threatened to overwhelm her as she recalled the encounter. In the wake of that fleeting electric sensation, she had become aware of a. . . sudden rush? flush? warmth? tingling? through her, dangerously pleasant, and far too. . . female in nature for comfort. It had been there, passively, a soft expansive hum throughout the entirety of her body for some time now; she had mistaken the warmth of drunkenness for the warmth of arousal. She shuddered. Arousal. How -- why? That feeling -- nebulous indefinable wash -- she had felt once or twice before in the past. It terrified her. But that shock, jolt, the resonating escalating glow that followed, enhanced, the echoing pulse in her breasts -- her breasts! -- was new, worse, impossible!  
Even now, cool evening air brushing by, solid wall behind her, she was aware of the strange, exhilarating, troublesome sensation fading, dulling, but still present, threshold prickling of the skin and mind. It was too much -- brief, perhaps minor, but new, alien -- too much, too much. She had barely hidden her shock from Hiroshi, forcing a small smile and then quickly withdrawing. Odd, though, that even then, after a moment's hesitation, she had felt tempted to mention what had just transpired within her to Hiroshi; something else the little voice had fortunately clamped down upon.  
Ranma sighed, closed her eyes. That moment of arousal was not the only thing disturbing her. Immediately after, while trying to bury the unwanted sensation, she had become aware of the small. . . problem, that Hiroshi had faced. How could she not? She knew exactly what Hiroshi had felt, had felt it herself often enough. He had been aroused, and had found it somewhat harder to conceal than she had her own experience. Releasing a whisper of a breath, an outward gasp, she slumped against the wall, head back, turning, cheek pressed lightly against the cool, rough surface of the brick, and shivered. I have that effect on _men_, Ranma realized: at that moment, Hiroshi no longer saw me as a man, a classmate, a troubled friend -- he saw me as a sexual object, as sexually exciting, as a _girl_, possessing something he wanted, desired, yearned for, with his. . . body. Her skin crawled at the prospect, something deep down inside, the pit of her stomach, hurt, she felt like curling up in a tight ball around the queasy ache. What did that _mean_? That she could excite Hiroshi physically -- worse, than he could excite _her_, physically, as well? It was something she had been aware of before, an ability she had even used to her advantage against her many male opponents -- but never had she realized the full import of what it entailed. No, not true. She had never _allowed_ herself to be aware of it, deliberately blocked out the realization, the acknowledgment that, while in female form, she was something men were attracted to, no, an object they _desired_. And was she. . . was she attracted as well to. . . .  
"Hey. Hey there, you ok?" interrupted a voice. She glanced up and saw a guy, her age, probably from a different school, looking at her curiously, smiling, the patio door open behind him. "You drink too much? Huh?" The guy smiled.  
Her eyes narrowed. "I know what you're doing!" she growled at him. "I know what you want!" She stood, glared, and brusquely brushed past him into the house. Enough of this. Drunk or not, this isn't me, she berated herself, I don't sit around and moan, whine and complain. The heir to the Saotome School of martial arts _confronts_ her problems, deals with them. No. _His_ problems, he emphatically insisted: this body isn't me, these breasts and hips and. . . and other parts aren't me -- and I know a sure fire solution to all this crap. If he was not going to go swimming, he decided, if he was going to leave the party, then there was no point in remaining female. Time for some hot water; time to be a man again!  
Only, looking back, hesitating, brushing the bangs of red hair from his face, he realized he really would have liked to join his friends.  
  
After fifteen minutes of fruitless searching upstairs, Akane remembered that she had left her jacket and bag with her swimming suit and towel downstairs. Tired, annoyed, melancholy and anxious to get home, she quickly hopped down the stairs. She turned out of the sunken staircase -- and solidly slammed into someone. Her victim stumbled back and Akane fell, hitting her rump on the bottom step.  
"Ow!"  
"Watch it!"  
"I'm sorry," she quickly started to apologize, lifting herself off the stairs. "I. . . Ranma?" Her eyes widened as she realized who she had run into.  
"A. . . Akane?" answered the redhead, equally surprised.  
An awkward silence for a moment.  
"You're still. . . ."  
"What are. . . ."  
They both stammered to a stop. Ranma placed one hand nervously behind his neck; Akane wondered if she ought to be annoyed or not. She was, from the slight pain, for having bumped into him, for being responsible, and for Ranma ignoring her all night; on the other hand, she felt strangely glad to see him again.  
"A girl?"  
"You doing?"  
They both tried to finish at the same time. They both tentatively giggled and relaxed slightly. "You first," offered Akane.  
He smiled. "Oh, er, yeah. I, ummm, was just wondering what you were doing. In a hurry?"  
Akane shrugged. "Not really. I'm just tired of the party. I want to go home."  
"Ah." Ranma nodded. Akane thought there was something a bit odd about him: his eyes seemed a bit bloodshot, face a bit flushed, stance slightly wobbly. Almost like her friends upstairs. "Ah," he repeated. "So, errr, you're leaving?"  
"Yes." She stepped away from the stairs, beckoning for Ranma to follow. They wove their way through the rec-room, several partiers already passed out uncomfortably (and uncaring of the fact) across the floor, on couches and chairs. Surprisingly soft music was drifting from speakers in the corner; a few subdued whispered conversations added to the background noise. They navigated by the pools of light slicing through the curtains from outside, eliciting the occasional muffled grunt when they stepped too close to a sleeper.  
They stopped outside the door to Kiyoshi's sister's room, Ranma reaching out and tapping her on the shoulder. The redhead nodded back at the minefield of exhausted partiers. "You ever been to somethin' like this, Akane?" he asked, smiling slightly.  
"No," she answered. "Not really." Seeing his curious look, she added, "I mean, yes, I've been to parties my friends have thrown -- but none of them were like this. With drinking and everything, I mean. . . ."  
"Ah," said Ranma. "But -- why not? You were at Furinkan last year, right? The guys said Kiyoshi threw this thing last year -- why didn't ya come?"  
Akane's expression darkened. "Dad wouldn't let me," she grumbled. "He didn't like the idea of all these boys and alcohol around. Neither did Kasumi. They couldn't stop Nabiki, but they could stop me! I was so mad! That's why I wanted to come this year so badly, especially after my friends told me how good of a time they had!"  
"So why was it ok to come this year?"  
"Because," she felt a familiar annoyance and flash of anger, "because you came, too. After all, who'd try anything with my 'fiance' around?" When would her father learn that she could take care of herself? She did _not_ need Ranma to look after her, she could take care of herself! She could handle any _boy_ who tried anything with her! With an angry huff she turned away, not caring to see the inevitable cocky, egoistical expression bound to cross Ranma's face.  
Instead, much to her surprise, the girl's hand fell on her shoulder, softly. "I'm. . . sorry, Akane. I guess that's why you didn't want me coming, right? I didn't know. Really." There was a brief hesitation, then a slight squeeze from the hand. "I'm, ah. . . sorry." Akane's eyes widened.  
"Ranma?"  
The pigtailed girl gave his head a little shake. "Er, nothing."  
"Did you just. . . ."  
Ranma smiled. "Of course not. C'mon, lets get your stuff."  
After a slight prodding, a confused Akane slid into the dark bedroom, her fiance following close behind. "We piled all our stuff on the bed," she hissed. "Can you see it?" The pigtailed silhouette shook a negative. It took Ranma tripping over a stack of discarded coats on the floor to finally locate Akane's possessions. She grabbed her coat, Ranma took the bag, and the two silently left the room. They politely ignored the couple making out on the bed.  
With a giggle, Ranma clicked the door shut. "Didja see," he started to ask.  
Akane blushed. "You pervert!" she exclaimed, giving him a slight shove. "You were looking!"  
". . . my jacket?" he finished, grinning. "What were _you_ thinking about, Akane?"  
"You didn't bring a jacket, baka!" Akane said, but smiled slightly. Then she shrugged and brushed past the girl. "Maybe I was just taking notes -- you never know when it might come in handy." She left the stunned redhead behind, glad that the darkness hid the sudden redness of her own face. It took Ranma a moment to recover.  
"Hey!"  
"What?"  
"You --"  
"I what?"  
"Notes?"  
"Yup."  
"For. . . ."  
"Forget it, Ranma."  
"Wouldja please shut up?" mumbled a voice from around foot level. Their discussion had carried them through to the centre of the impromptu sleeping hall. Ranma shrugged and turned his attention to rummaging through Akane's bag.  
"Hey!" she exclaimed. "Get your nose out of there!"  
He looked up, grinned, and continued. "Hey," he said a moment later, "where'd you get this?" Out came Akane's new and (for her) daring crimson bikini. He held it up to the faint light filtering in from outside. Slate- blue eyes widened at the smallness of the ensemble; the colouring, though -- a fiery orange--red at the top of each piece, gradually darkening to a deep crimson, almost burgundy by the bottom -- he seemed to approve of. "Haven't seen this one before -- kinda sexy, ne?"  
Akane blushed. "Gimme that!" she whispered, grabbing the bag and its contents from Ranma's grasp. "It wasn't my choice. Yuka and Sayuri kind of forced me to buy it. I didn't really want it."  
"Really?" said Ranma. "That's too bad. I think you'd look great in it. . ."  
For some unknown reason, her heart beat just a little bit quicker at those words. "You really think so?" she started to say.  
". . . though I'd look better, of course!" Ranma finished.  
"You jerk." She glared at him and spun away.  
"Aw, c'mon, Akane!" exclaimed Ranma, hopping over a sleeping figure and catching up a few steps later. "I was just kiddin'! Can't ya take a joke?"  
"Hmph," she responded, slightly disgruntled by the fact that she knew it was true. Well, whatever. At least she had finally found Ranma; now, the two of them could head home. She was a little anxious. The party had not been everything she had hoped for, although she blamed Ranma for some of that. But, she grudgingly admitted, that was not entirely fair. The last year had changed her -- changed her a lot -- and she simply did not have as much in common with her friends as she once had; or, maybe, there had never been as much there as she had supposed. Either way, she was tired and home was still a fair walk away. "C'mon, let's go," she finally added. "You ready?"  
"Huh?"  
"To lea. . ." she started to say, then looked at Ranma. They were standing by the patio doors now. The doors were slightly open. A cool breeze swirled around their ankles. Faint, cheerful laughter and sounds could be heard from outside. The redhead was gazing outside, a wistful look in his eyes. "Ranma?"  
Ranma was silent for a moment, staring into the night. Then he turned back to Akane. "You, ah," he started nervously, oddly, "you're goin' home, right, Akane?"  
Her brow creased. "Yes. . . ." She noticed a thoughtful look on Ranma's face. He was looking at the bag in Akane's arms. "What?" Akane asked suspiciously.  
"So you wouldn't mind if I borrowed your bathing suit, would you?"  
"WHAT?"  
"Well, I wanna go swimming with the guys, and. . . ."  
The sudden, fierce feeling of betrayal and anger that seized Akane shocked and confused her. Ranma kept talking, but the youngest Tendo was oblivious to the words, trying to understand, restrain the sudden fury that filled her. He was gesturing towards the outside, relaxed, half-grinning, happy. It was too much. She failed to understand, but expressed her hurt in the best way she knew how. "You pervert!", she hissed, eyes flashing.  
She immediately regretted the words. The sudden twisting, torturing of his features, hardening of soft facial lines, the way the easy pleasure faded from the eyes, the immediate tenseness of body, cut her deeply -- even as it gave her an unpleasant bitter joy. Ranma spun back to her, surprised, and this one time her trademark insult seem to have struck him hard.  
"Wh -- what?" he whispered, voice pained and devoid of the jocular tone he had bantered with since bumping into Akane.  
"You want to stay, don't you? What kind of _guy_ hangs around other guys wearing a _girl's_ bathing suit?" As the words escaped her mouth she knew she should stop, let it drop, apologize even -- but she did not. Her unexpected anger still simmered within, pushed her. "A pervert! That's what kind!"  
The pigtailed girl's eyes narrowed, face flushing unpleasantly, the look of bewildered, stunned hurt turning ugly. He took a step -- almost threatening -- towards her. "I'm a pervert, am I?"  
And, surprisingly, Akane no longer felt like continuing the argument. That sudden burst faded as quickly as it had come, leaving her feeling ill and frightened and terrible. But -- but everything would be fine, she had called him a pervert countless times before, why should it bother him _this_ time? "I. . . I just want to go home, Ranma," she answered softly, bowing her head. Please, Ranma?  
"Fine then. Leave," he hissed coldly. "But you'll be going home alone."  
She glanced up at him in shock. "But -- but you're supposed to walk me back! Father said so!"  
"Hey!" he exclaimed angrily. "You wanted to come here, alone, right? Well, fine. Then you can leave here, alone, too! You didn't want me hangin' around you at the party? Fine! Then why should I hang around you _after_ the party?"  
"Ranma, don't. . . I'm sor. . . ," she whispered.  
"After all, being alone suits you, ne?" He threw his arms up wildly, expressively. "S'not like anyone _here_," and he gestured about the room, "cares if you stay or go." He gestured at himself and leaned forward. "_I_ certainly don't!"  
And the anger returned in full.  
"You jerk!" she howled, and punched forward, target blurred by watering in her eyes, not that it mattered, she never missed Ranma, not when he deserved it. Only this time, she did miss; no, she registered a second later, he had blocked her, effortlessly deflecting the wild swing aside.  
"I don't think so, Akane," he said. "Not tonight."  
It took her a moment to overcome the surprise and irritation, to think rationally again, to respond. How dare he have the gall to actually stop her righteous retaliation to his words? "Yeah," she sneered. "I wouldn't want to mess up that pretty face, would I? That smooth, feminine complexion of yours. Might stop the men from chasing after you, and you wouldn't want _that_ now, would you?"  
"At least I _can_ attract 'em, unlike a certain kawaikunee I know who'll never get a guy unless he's forced ta be engaged to her!"  
She ignored the barb, attacked the first statement. "That's right! You _can_ attract them, you pervert! And you _like_ it, don't you, Ranma, don't you?" She advanced on him, punctuating the statement with a jab of her finger. "Some man, some fiance you are!"  
Ranma's face flushed an ugly red, and he glared up at Akane before spinning away, falling against the glass of the door with one arm, clenching the frame fiercely. "I _am_ a man!" He grinded the words out through clenched teeth.  
With a snort of derision, Akane thrust the bikini in his face. "What kind of man _wants_ to wear this, huh?"  
"You know I -- I can't just wear guy's shorts when swimming, I. . . ."  
"Swimming? Why, huh? Not done flirting with Hiroshi yet?" And she knew that last one was unjustified, did Ranma and Hiroshi even spend that much time together tonight? But it struck and hurt its target, and the pigtailed girl flinched. "Maybe you _want_ him to make a pass at you?"  
Ranma turned away, stalked back into the room. Akane followed, heady with success and released frustration. But when she came up behind him, she suddenly decided that enough was enough. She softened her voice, or at least lessened it, though without sacrificing an authoritative tone. "So are you going to stay here? Like a girl?" She held the bikini out to be taken. "Because, fine, here's my bikini. See if I care, maybe you really _are_ a girl. Or. . . or are you going to get some hot water, change back, and walk me home -- like a man?"  
Back still turned, crimson pigtail hanging limply, Ranma gave no response, beyond, perhaps, a stiffening of his back.  
"Ranma?" she prodded.  
Still no answer.  
"Ranma?" she tried again, this time louder.  
Again, without a word, he ignored her.  
"RANMA!" she screamed at his impassive back.  
No answer.  
"Will ya answer the stupid bitch," muttered some boy laying at their feet. "Some of us are tryin' to sleep here. . . ."  
This time he responded. Turning quickly, smoothly, he reached down and snatched the speaker by the throat, hauling him to his feet, grip tight and bruising. "That's my fiancee you're insulting there," he intoned. "If anyone's gonna do that, it's me." He gave his victim a shake. "Understand?" Receiving a frightened approximation of a nod, he tossed the guy aside. All around, people were standing, waking up, propping themselves up on elbows to observe the argument.  
"Ranma. . . ," whispered a surprised Akane. But when he finally turned back to her, and she saw his eyes, she knew that he was angry, far angrier than he had ever been with her before; and she knew that there would be no simple reconciliation for tonight's fight, that she had somehow injured her fiance badly -- and that the worst was yet to come.  
"And, man, is she _ever_," he exclaimed, gesturing widely, speaking to the sudden audience. He advanced on Akane, eyes narrowed, cold, voice colder as he addressed her evenly without inflection. "A bitch, that is."  
Stunned, her breath caught in her throat for a moment; she hissed it out between tight lips, blood pounding, intense wrath reddening and contorting her visage. "What did you call me?" she demanded.  
He actually hesitated, uncertainty clouding his eyes. Akane stepped closer. "Ranma? What. Did you. Call _me_?" Her voice rose with each word, unpleasantly shrill and loud to her own throbbing ears by the end. The front of Ranma's Chinese shirt twisted in her grasp, fabric likely drawing painfully against his breasts as it bunched in her hand. He glanced down at her hold, then slowly met her inflamed glare with steady eyes.  
"You're violent. You're ugly and mean and cruel. The name fits, ne?" he said. With casual deliberateness he laid both hands over Akane's. "I think you'd better let go, Akane." Eyes peering from beneath red bangs hardened.  
Her own widened. She knew the technique. A small twisting of her hand, a half bow at his waist, light pressure applied to the wrist -- simple, painful, and he would drive her to her knees. The Child Worships the Buddha. Never. "You wouldn't dare," she whispered.  
One eyebrow arched. Fingers trembled but tightened lightly over the hand. For a moment his steady stare cracked, begged her to let go; when her fingers tightened in the folds of the shirt, the weakness disappeared, determination resolved itself in his features. With an utter lack of haste he slowly started to twist her wrist. "Let go," he demanded softly.  
"No," she responded.  
He twisted further. Twenty, thirty, forty-five degrees: the first phantom spasm of pain. Again, briefly, the pleading in his eyes, quickly covered up. "Akane," he whispered.  
"Do it," she hissed. "You can't."  
Continue turning, wrist bending, forearm unwillingly following the turn; ninety degrees, her grip now awkward, but shirt still grasped fiercely in hooked fingers. His grip on her hand solid yet oddly shy and tremulous. A final exchange, unflinching stares. And then, a sad, almost apologetic sigh, soft release of breath; the shivering left Ranma's hold. She felt him push down.  
She released his shirt.  
He released her wrist.  
"I hate you," she said. She turned, stepped away. An unpleasant emptiness filled her as she massaged her tingling hand. Something was gone, a certainty, a foundation, torn away by his newfound willingness to force her down. Ranma was drunk, she now recognized the shift in his demeanor, the earlier unusual looseness; but his threat had been perfectly lucid. Inexcusable. "I HATE YOU!" she cried, spinning back.  
"I'm sorry," he answered tonelessly. "I. . . ."  
"No!" She stormed back, towered over the shorter girl. "No excuses!" She blinked, unwanted tears returning. "You bastard!"  
"I wanted to stay, Akane. With my friends. Why couldn't you just let me stay?"  
"Your friends?" She nearly yelled. "Your friends?" And then, almost a whisper. "Aren't I your friend too?"  
He simply levelled a silent, steady stare at her.  
"Thanks," she said after a long moment. Voice heavy, eyes hot, throat thick, she pushed past him towards the stairs, pausing as she passed by. "Thanks for totally ruining my night, Ranma." She thrust the bag, the bikini within, into his unresisting hands. It fell to the ground when he failed to grab it. "Here. Enjoy. I hope it was worth it." Wiping the back of one hand clumsily across her face, she mounted the first step.  
"Akane, no, wait," she heard from behind. A hand fell on her shoulder.  
"Don't you dare touch me!" she howled, spinning savagely, arm swinging, dead weight slamming Ranma upside the head. He fell back with a cry, surprised, hurt. "Don't you _dare_ ever touch me. Never again!" She pointed an accusing finger at his fallen form. "You. . . I can't. . . no fiance of mine would ever _think_ of hurting me like that!"  
"Who said I ever _wanted_ to be engaged to you?" His voice cracked strangely as he spoke. He knew where this was leading, she knew as well, they saw it in each other's eyes, but the challenge had been thrown, the words released.  
"You're right, Ranma," she said softly. A voice inside her, buried deep, cried out, begged her to stop. Don't, don't, not like this, don't -- but she was long used to ignoring that little voice, and the hurt Ranma had inflicted tonight easily drowned out the pained sobbing from within. "You're right. Fine. Fine. Our engagement is over, Ranma. You're free. Go snuggle up to Hiroshi, or some other guy, or girl, I really don't care, I never want to see you again." She turned away and slowly walked up the stairs. "Goodbye, Ranma. Have a good night."  
  
Hiromi watched stunned from her seat on the ground, her boyfriend wordlessly holding her hand. Akane and Ranma had just split up. Again. But this time -- this time it was different. Somehow she knew this was not going to be resolved by Monday.  
As she watched -- as the whole room watched, silently -- Ranma stared up the stairs for a long, long time, or so it seemed. Finally, without a sound, she picked herself off the ground, reached down and looked in the bag lying by her feet. Ranma pulled out a red-hued bikini and simply looked at it. She glanced once more up the stairs, back at the clothing in her hands, once outside towards the pool. She bowed her head, staggered slowly in the direction of the patio doors.  
And then, as she walked, a trembling overcame her, grew, violently, till she was forced to stop, whole body shaking spastically. With an explosive release of breath she nearly doubled over, clutching herself in a fierce shivering embrace, a moan, escaping, sounding nearly like a tortured word -- Akane; and then, uncurling, nearly incoherent keening scream ripping from her throat, she smashed her fist into the wall.  
Ranma gazed dumbly at the hole in the wall for a moment and then slowly withdrew her hand. Without another sound she shuffled off in the direction of the pool change-rooms.  
"Shit," breathed Hiromi's boyfriend. "Shit."  
She nodded, feeling weak before the sudden show of violence, left drained as overly high tensions and emotions faded from the room. Whispers, murmuring, louder commentaries and gossip and discussion erupted all around. Shaking her head, Hiromi stood. She had to find Sayuri and tell her what happened. She would want to know what had just happened to Akane.  
  
"Anything-Goes Special Manoeuver: Mirthful Otter Springing Double Board Dive of Death!" cried out a voice breathlessly.  
Hiroshi spun in the water towards the source, unconsciously treading to keep from sinking. "Is that. . . ," murmured Sayuri in his arms, as a red-bikini clad girl cleared the fence in a single jump and bounded towards the diving boards, pigtail streaming behind her. With a yell the newcomer leapt onto the low board; she sprang off, hurtling straight up, flinging up and over the high board; she landed at the very tip of the second platform, and it bent, curved beneath the sudden weight, almost to the breaking point; for a second she seemed suspended there, frozen; and then, with a savage snap, the board flung her high up over the pool. For a moment she actually disappeared from sight in the darkness overhead, her gleeful scream the only sign of her presence, and then, her spinning, flailing, twisting, plunging form reappeared, speeding towards the water. People desperately pushed themselves away from where they thought she would land as her compact form hurled towards them, and then, at the last moment, she started to uncurl, and. . . .  
There was a thunderous, gigantic slap and spout of water as she slammed into the pool's surface. "Ranma?" chuckled Hiroshi, disengaging from Sayuri's hold and drifting towards his friend, pushing through the waves caused by her entrance. "Yeah, I think so."  
Ranma slowly drifted to the surface, face down. After a moment she rolled over, exposing skin almost as red as the bikini she wore. "Ohhhh," she moaned.  
"Nice bellyflop, buddy," smirked Hiroshi. "Impressive move. Methinks the 'Mirthful Otter' might wanna practice that a bit more."  
"I shouldn't have tried for that last twist," she groaned. "That HURT! She allowed her feet to sink and slowly treaded water, turning to face her friend. Her skin was still a delicate pink beneath the water's surface. Hiroshi had a nice view of her as she moved away and drifted towards the pool's edge, breasts just hovering half-submerged at the waterline. That crimson bikini -- where on earth did she get it from! -- looked just fabulous on her: simple design, a little too small and a little tight around the breasts; the colouring suited her perfectly, complementing or accentuating her hair. He found himself staring at her shapely rear as she pulled herself from the pool, water cascading down her back, material glistening wetly, bottom part of the bikini tightly and firmly conforming to her shape.  
"Getting a nice eyeful?" hissed a voice at his side. Sayuri glared at him. "Done ogling her yet?"  
He raised his hands in defence. "Hey, hey! I. . . C'mon, it's Ranma! She, er, he's my buddy!" In response she dunked his head and paddled away, scowling. He grinned at Sayuri's retreating back, which, while certainly attractive, did not have that healthy, lithe beauty which Ranam possessed. Wiping the water from his eyes, he shrugged, acknowledging that, yes, he _had_ been looking. For some reason that fact no longer bothered him. Perhaps it had something to do with the couple of bottles of sake he had shared with his girlfriend in the last half hour or so, or maybe it was simply a result of that last conversation with his friend. Whether or not Ranma was really a guy or a girl. . . she looked damn fine in that bathing suit. He propelled himself to where she was standing at the water's edge.  
"Isn't that Akane's suit?" Yuka had apparently wasted no time in confronting Ranma after her arrival. "Where did you get it? Did she lend it to you? Where is she? Hey, you know, it _does_ look good on you! But, really, should you be wearing your fiancee's clothes like that? Isn't that a little perverted? Do you share other. . . ."  
Ranma fell back beneath the barrage of questions and comments, desperation in her eyes. Opting for a quick escape, she dived backwards into the pool, and, with a few, strong kicks of her legs, sliced underwater towards the middle of the deep end. Sighing, Hiroshi kicked off the edge and followed. Yuka merely snorted at the retreating figure that had ignored her and turned back to her friends.  
"So you made it!" he said when he finally caught up to Ranma.  
She nodded. "Yup."  
"So. . . is that really Akane's bikini?"  
A momentary blush, a momentary frown, and then she answered. "Yeah."  
"It, ah, looks good on you."  
"Thanks," she answered, and grinned. "I think." Hooking a finger beneath the material that bound her breasts, she tugged uncomfortably at the top. "S'bit tight, though."  
Hiroshi grinned. "Yeah, I noticed," and made an exaggerated leer at her.  
"Hentai!" she smirked, and splashed him. They hovered in a circle for a moment, Ranma scoping out the pool and company, until she noticed a few guys and girls heading towards them. One was Daisuke, who looked pleased to see Ranma; the other was Sayuri, who did not. "Uh oh," Ranma said. "I'm in for it now."  
Hiroshi noted the angry expression on his girlfriend's face. "What. . . it's your fault she's mad?"  
"Probably," she said, nodding. "Me and Akane. . . ."  
"You mean. . ."  
"Yeah, we got in another fight." She sighed. "Sayuri must've heard 'bout it."  
"Not again!"  
She nodded. "Yeah. Oh well, shit happens."  
"Ranma!"  
"Hey, I'm tired of always treading on eggshells with her, man!" A passionate, heated undercurrent filled and raised her voice. "I'm not gonna live my life watchin' every word! I -- I don't know why I put up with her!"  
"I though you said it was because you loved her?" Hiroshi smiled.  
The smile was not mirrored, and she stared angrily at the water directly in front of her as she muttered her answer. "Yeah? Well I was drunk when I said that, 'kay?"  
They turned as the newcomers finally floated up alongside them. "Hey, Ranma!" said Daisuke, voice rather slurred and sounding quite cheerful. "How's it. . . ."  
"Where's Akane?" interrupted Sayuri. There was a sharp, accusing edge to her voice.  
The pigtailed girl looked at Hiroshi's girlfriend for a long, hard moment before answering in a strong, level voice that left little room for argument. "Don't wanna talk 'bout it," she said. Ignoring Sayuri's incensed stare she turned back to Hiroshi. "Hey, bud, you got anything else to drink?"  
"Don't you think you've had enough?" demanded Sayuri.  
Ranma turned back to her, face hardening further. "Bite me," she said. She held Sayuri with her gaze a moment longer, and then turned her back and swam off, flicking her pigtail in the girl's face. The small splash from her departure caught Sayuri straight on.  
"I'll, er, go check on her, okay?" said Daisuke, made an apologetic glance at the girl, and took after the redhead. "Hey, Ranma, wait up!"  
Hiroshi floated up to his girlfriend, who was rubbing the water from her eyes and trying to glare after the retreating pigtailed girl. She appeared very upset, and returned no affection as he gathered her into his arms. "Hey, you ok?" he asked softly.  
"That bitch!" she snarled.  
"What?" he exclaimed, surprised, a little taken aback by her vehemence. "You mean Ranma?"  
"Yes."  
He tried a tentative smile. "I don't think that's quite the right," he started to say, then petered off when she gave him an unimpressed glare and pushed away, turning her back to him. "Aw, c'mon Sayuri. What'd I say?"  
"I just knew you were going to try and defend her," she grumbled.  
"What? But I -- I'm not tryin' to. . . she's just a. . . ."  
"Buddy. Yeah, I know. So it's Akane's fault, right?" Sayuri spun on him. "Typical. You guys always back each other up!"  
"What, first she's a bitch, now she's a guy?" His voice he purposefully kept light, but nevertheless felt himself coming to the defence. After all, why should it be Ranma's fault? Akane was the abusive, violent one in the relationship; sure, the guy could be a bit insensitive at times, but she was the one that kept flying off the handle at the slightest provocation.  
Sayuri's eyes narrowed. Without another word she paddled off.  
"No, wait!" exclaimed Hiroshi. He slid in front of her, rested one hand soothingly against her shoulder, played his finger softly up and down her moist arm. "I'm sorry, ok? Listen, honey, I'm not trying to take sides here. Really. I don't even know what happened."  
She softened slightly. "It's. . . well, I didn't see it myself. But I heard that Akane ran off crying. Ranma said some really mean things to her -- mean enough that she killed the engagement."  
"WHAT?"  
"Yeah. Big stuff. That jerk." Her lips curved in a tight smile. "Or, as I prefer, bitch."  
This time it was Hiroshi who refused to respond. Twisting to see his friend, he saw Ranma and Daisuke engaged in conversation. They both appeared happy, smiling; but now, he wondered if Ranma's smile was hiding a deeper sorrow. "Poor guy," he murmured.  
"Poor _guy_?" asked Sayuri incredulously. "What about Akane? She was the one who was hurt!"  
"So was Ranma."  
"Yeah, right."  
"He was!" he exclaimed, turning back to her, taken aback by the volume, the strength of his own voice. "She was!" Seeing the surprise on her face, he calmed himself. "You didn't hear her tonight! She's hurting -- she feels alone and depressed and. . . ."  
"Ranma?" she said skeptically. "That Casanova? As if!"  
"No, she does!" he insisted. "I -- Listen, I also thought that way, but, but she doesn't have it as easy as we thought! She's tired and confused! She's. . . she's scared!"  
"The mighty Ranma, scared?"  
"Yeah, scared! Him. . . her -- whatever. Her too! Like. . . like -- like how'd you feel when you had your first period, huh? Think it went any easier for her? And at least you're a. . . at least you had your. . . ." And then, seeing her shocked, blushing face, suddenly realizing what he'd said, he stammered to a stop. "I, I mean, she. . . ." Shit, Hiroshi thought, I just betrayed her trust, I couldn't keep her secret for even a single night.  
The little 'o' of surprise on Sayuri's face twisted into a nasty, pleased grin. "She's had her. . . and it _scares_ her? Oh, that's just too rich!"  
"Hey, hey, no, wait!" he said, slightly panicked. "I promised her I wouldn't tell anyone how she feels about that stuff -- you can't tell anyone, Sayuri, you can't!"  
"Oh, relax, Hiroshi," she said. "Everybody probably already knows about her little 'problems'. It's not like you guys were all that quiet talking about it."  
"No, no, you don't understand! Sure, she told everyone about her. . . her 'girl' problems, but the other stuff, like that she was scared and confused, and, and, really worried about it -- that she only told _me_. She asked me to keep it a secret! If you tell anyone else, she'll never trust me again!"  
Sayuri's countenance darkened slightly. "Yeah, and we wouldn't want _that_ to happen, would we?" she said, a slight bitterness to her voice.  
"What?"  
"Nothing." Without another word she presented her back to him, arms crossed.  
"No, not nothing!" He pulled on her shoulder; she resisted, but the water provided lousy support and she spun anyway. "Something's bothering you. I want to know what."  
"You should be able to figure it out on your own!"  
"Oh, don't give me that, Sayuri! How can I?"  
"Well, gee, it's only been bugging me all night!"  
"Yeah, but I've been with the guys all night, and with Ranma all. . . ." Seeing her arch one eyebrow he stopped, and grimaced. "Oh. Er, you mean. . . ."  
"Yeah, I do. I don't care if you spend some time with them, but, dammit, Hiroshi, you could've at least passed by a few times!"  
"I, ah, I'm sorry?"  
She floated a little closer to him. "You don't seem very sorry. . . ."  
"But I am," he said, reaching up and wiping away a few droplets from her face, smoothing back a wayward strand of hair behind her ear with a delicate touch. "How can I prove it to you?"  
"You'll have to think of that yourself," she answered, smiling, drawing closer, wrapping her arms around his waist. Hiroshi responded in kind, arms lying comfortably around her neck.  
"Is this on the right track?" he asked softly, laying a soft line of kisses along her neck.  
"I'm not quite convinced you mean it," she said, legs curling around his torso, water buoying her up. One of his hands played along the open back of her swimsuit, tracing the seams, the length of her spine; the other treaded water.  
"This any better?" The next kiss was on her ear, a brief nibble, then lightly across her face, where small drops of water still glittered against her skin. Finally his lips brushed gossamer soft against hers. "Hmm?"  
She sighed softly, lips parting slightly, eyes half closed. "Yes," she breathed, and embraced him tighter. He felt her breasts press up against his chest, the sleekness of her suit, her damp, clinging hair brushing against his hand now clasping her back; the smell of chlorine, her wetness, moist hair, the night wind filled and aroused him. Pressed fully against him, shifting her hips against his a little, she smiled and repeated, "Yes."  
His lips brushed against hers again, parting a bit more. She responded, their tongues flicked, touched briefly, but, as he pushed forward, she drew back teasingly, eyes closed, smiling. Hiroshi growled in the back of his throat, moved his hand from her back to her neck, held her head, tilted slightly, kissed again; this time they met, breath hot on each others cool, wet face, embrace tightening, the pair spiralling slowly in the pool, tongues meeting once more, and. . . .  
"KIYAAAAA!" Sudden water and strong waves doused them. Sayuri lost her hold on her boyfriend, but, anchored to him by her entangled feet, was unable to disengage; with a surprised cry she fell back and sank beneath the water, one leg still hooked around Hiroshi. Wiping the water from his eyes, he gasped and reached for her, yanking her back up above the surface. She gasped in surprise, coughing, clawing clinging hair from her eyes, blinking and looking angrily around for the disruption. Said disruption surfaced between the two.  
"Oops!" giggled the redhead. "I, ah, didn't mean to land so close to ya!" Ranma stuck out her tongue at Sayuri and kicked off before the furious girl could retaliate. "Hey, Dai! You were right! She's pretty pissed!" she called out as Sayuri, furious, spitting up water, glowered in rage.  
"Ohhhh. . .That, that. . . _bitch_!" Sayuri exclaimed, and swam off angrily.  
Hiroshi sighed, glanced between his girlfriend, and his friend who currently happened to be a girl, and wondered which one he ought to talk to first.  
  
Water cascaded off of her lithe form as she effortlessly lifted from the pool, pulling herself up and swinging smooth, curvaceous legs over the edge of the deep end. The redhead unconsciously tugged at the strings of her top as she stood and talked animatedly with a classmate, gesticulating expressively. After a few moments she shrugged, accepted an offered drink and stepped away, laughing, obviously enjoying herself.  
"What'cha lookin' at?"  
Sayuri glanced up as a rather drunk Daisuke plopped down next to her. Looking away, she muttered, "Ranma," and nodded towards the girl as she clambered up the ladder to the high diving board once more.  
"Ah, yes. Lovely, ain't she?" Daisuke grinned and leaned back.  
She glowered at him for a moment. "Yeah. Whatever."  
They both watched as she hopped off the board backwards, opting for a simple, direct dive devoid of fancy twirls or spins, cutting effortlessly into the water with only minor splashing. Of course, being the showoff that she was, Ranma then leapt out of the water, probably pushing off the bottom with inhuman strength, and _then_ performed a flashy somersault as she rose above the surface.  
"Just look at her," Sayuri muttered. "She just _has_ to be the centre of attention."  
Daisuke nodded, still grinning, but replied by saying, "Aw, relax, will ya. She's just having a good time, ya know? Heck, if I could do that stuff, I'd flip and jump around, too." Slicing back into the water, Ranma started to cruise back and forth on her back, legs propelling her quickly through the waves. "Heh. She's like an otter or somethin' out there."  
"Whatever," she sniffed, turning away.  
"What the hell is your problem?" demanded Daisuke, and his voice lost some of its lightness. "Let up on her, okay? What's she ever done to you?"  
She levelled a cold look at the drunken boy. "Nothing, ok? Nothing." Sayuri turned away further, back to both Ranma's antics and Daisuke's annoying prodding. "Just leave me alone."  
There was a brief silence, but then his voice piped up again. "Oh, hey, look. She's just jumped off the diving board again. Oh, splashed Yuka with that one! And Yuka retaliates! They're splashing each other; oh, Keiko just joined Yuka's side, and, yup, Akemi evens things out by coming to Ranma's rescue! Gee, _they_ sure seem to be having a good time!" Sayuri felt Daisuke return his gaze to her. "The other girls don't seem to have a problem with Ranma," he said. "So what crawled up your ass and set up nest?"  
"Shut _up_," growled Sayuri. "Go away."  
"Nah," said Daisuke, and returned to his running commentary of Ranma's actions. She felt her irritation rising with each word, worsened as the little group floated by close enough for her to hear their joyful cries. She almost screamed when Daisuke called out to them, and they answered with a spout of water, splashing her accidentally. Just as she was about to spin and tell Daisuke off for good, Sayuri saw Hiroshi emerge from behind the bushes and head towards her.  
"Oh, wow, _that_ feels better," he said, smiling, adjusting his swimming trunks. A moment later a look of concern flashed across his eyes. "Hey, what's wrong?" he asked, kneeling down before his girlfriend. "You ok?"  
Despite herself, Sayuri smiled slightly. Whatever other faults Hiroshi might have as a boyfriend, being attentive and caring was not among them. Maybe not the most attractive guy she had ever dated, but certainly one of the sweetest and gentlest. And -- her smile grew -- a damn fine kisser, too. She shook her head. "Nothing," she said, and took his hand and pulled him up. Smiling he rose and settled in next to her, cuddling up, and she ruffled his blond, curly hair.  
"Oh, ok," he said, and hugged her with the one arm. He smoothed back her still--damp hair and kissed her on the cheek. "You havin' a good night?"  
"It's getting better now that you're back," she started to say, turning into the kiss, when Daisuke interrupted.  
"Yo! 'Roshi! Check this out!" he exclaimed.  
Hiroshi twisted away from an annoyed Sayuri and looked over at the pool. "Hey, cool," he said, and glanced once at his girlfriend. "Hey, Sayuri, lookit this! Ranma's. . . ."  
"Ohhhhh," she cried. She leapt from her foot and stamped one foot angrily. "I've had _enough_ of that stupid redhead!" Without waiting for a reply she stormed away, ignoring the surprised cry from behind her. Only once she escaped the confines of the pool area did she slow, hugging herself against the growing, chill wind, pulling her towel tighter around her. She shivered.  
A moment later a pair of arms encircled and drew her into an embrace from behind. "Hey. What's wrong?" Hiroshi. For a moment she considered ignoring him, or breaking angrily away; instead, after a sigh, she relaxed and fell back against him. His chin rested gently on the top of her head and he hugged her tighter.  
"I. . . oh, I don't know," she finally said. "She just irritates me! Something about her just bugs the hell out of me!"  
A silent moment, and then she felt him nod slightly. "Ok." Still holding her from behind, he gently led her towards a nearby pair of chairs left sitting out by the patio doors. After another tender squeeze they separated and sat. He looked down at the ground and shuffled his feet slightly -- a little habit of his when deep in thought that she found endearing -- and finally focussed his attention back on her. Hiroshi looked quite serious, and concerned, and remarkably sober; Sayuri realized it had been a while since he had touched anything to drink. "Why?" he eventually asked, reaching and holding one of her hand, rubbing its back gently.  
Sayuri shrugged. "I don't know!" she said. "Really. I guess -- I guess it's just the way she just waltzes in here, I mean, she didn't even grow up with any of us, she's been here less than a year, she never even hangs out with us. . . but she just walks in and becomes the centre of the whole stupid party. I mean, she's not even a real girl! But, dammit, she steals the guys' attention away, she steals _my_ friends away -- hell, she even drives Akane away, and no one seems to care!"  
To her surprise, Hiroshi actually smiled slightly at her comments. "Heh. I think you've finally got an idea of how us guys feel about her. I mean him." He shook his head. "Oh, whatever."  
"No, no," she answered. "It's not the same! I mean. . . ."  
"Of course it's the same!" he said. Hiroshi pulled his chair a bit closer. "You're jealous!"  
"WHAT?"  
He shrugged. "Of course you are! Hell, he, errr, she's, better looking than you! Heck, the guys voted her 'Best Babe of Furinkan High' tonight -- and, let's face it, with good reason! How can any of you hope to compete with legs like hers, a chest like hers? Ranma's in top shape without looking gross, she's got great curves in all the right spots, she's a great athlete, we know she can cook, and that she can. . . ."  
"Hi -- ro -- shi," Sayuri growled, snatching her hand away.  
"No, wait!" he said, raising his hands placatingly. "Hear me through! The guys feel the same way about him! Hell, he's better looking than us, judging from the way you girls react; he outdoes any of us, easily, in any sport; he's in better shape that we'll _ever_ be, and could kick the crap out of us if he ever wanted to -- but he doesn't because, despite everything, he's really not that bad of a guy. A bit arrogant, sure, but why shouldn't he be? Anytime a new girl shows up, she gravitates towards him; and anytime there's a serious problem, he gets to be the hero and fix it." He shrugged. "Of course you're jealous. _I'm_ jealous!" And then he smirked slightly. "But you know what? I don't envy the guy, not really. Not after tonight. The shit that comes along with all that is too much. The price is just too high."  
A cool wind blew by once more, and she shivered unconsciously. There was something about his words that rang true, and she could see where he was coming from; but despite all that, Sayuri found that she still greatly disliked Ranma. Maybe it was not an entirely rational feeling, but then again, feelings rarely were. But she could tell the subject was important to Hiroshi: he cared for her, obviously, but Ranma was his 'buddy', and Hiroshi obviously hoped that his friend and his girlfriend could at least get along. So, with a sigh, she decided that, for tonight at least, she might as well let go of some of her hostility. She nodded. "Maybe you're right," she finally said, and then, leaning forward, added, "You're sweet, you know that?"  
"Yeah," he answered, smiling, pulling her off her seat. She settled into his lap and cuddled up to him.  
"I'm still a bit miffed about that comparison thing," she said. "You sure I'm not better looking than her?"  
"Yup," he answered, voice teasing.  
She pulled back and pouted. "I'm hurt!"  
"The difference is," he said, pulling her back, "is that with Ranma, if I tried this," and he laid a gentle kiss on the soft curve of her neck, "or this," and his hand played along her back, sliding rather low over the surface of her bathing suit, "or, most certainly, _this_," and, as he brought his lips to hers, his other hand smoothly passed lingeringly across her breasts, "I'd get killed." He squeezed one breast softly through the slippery one-piece, as lips parted and his tongue slid into her mouth.  
Several moments later when they finally broke the kiss, she let out a pleased sigh. "Ah. I guess it's ok, then." She playfully tweaked his cheek. "Pretty daring tonight, aren't we," she said, clasping the one probing hand to her chest.  
Hiroshi had the decency to blush. "I, ah, I. . . ."  
"Don't worry about it," she murmured huskily. "It felt kind of nice."  
"It, it did?" he said, voice a little squeaky. She smiled at his nervousness; the earlier confidence possessed during talking seemed to have evaporated. Probably had something to do with his obvious excitement, judging from the unsubtle newfound bump in her shifting seat. This was a step forward in their relationship, Sayuri realized. Sure, they had kissed before, hugged, held hands -- but nothing very physical beyond that; and it was a hesitant step for herself, as well. No boy had ever touched her with the intimacy she was about to allow Hiroshi.  
"Yes." This time being the gentle one, she took the hand from her chest and brought it to the area of her midriff that the bathing suit left exposed. His touch was slightly clammy against her skin. Fighting down her own nervousness, she led his fingers to the edge of her suit and slid the tips of his fingers beneath the taut bluish material. "But I can't really feel you through this," she added, rubbing the cloth, then pushing his hand further in, fingers approaching her breasts, voice slightly trembling.  
With slightly terrified eyes he leaned in closer. Their mouths met once more, deep, passionate kiss, she felt his hand slide fully beneath her top, reach and caress the bottom of her right breast, sending a pleasant, fiery tingle through her; and then, breath heavy on each other's face, the embrace tightened, kiss deepened, fingers anxiously yet curiously massaging her chest, thumb pressing in, rubbing against her nipple, strange and rough but nice presence of a boy's touch upon her, wonderfully pleasant sensation rising, and. . . .  
"Hey, yo, Hiroshi, what'cha. . . Woopsy!" intruded a decidedly unwanted female voice.  
She pulled back, growling in frustration and extreme annoyance. If Ranma -- if anyone! -- interrupted them _one_ more time, she would scream! Hiroshi seemed a bit miffed, too, as he turned to the intruding redhead. "Ranma, please," he snapped.  
"Hey, hey!" she said. "No prob! Just headed for the can, anyway!" she said, grinning. Ranma had pulled on her red Chinese shirt, leaving it hanging open over the still damp bikini. She leaned in close. "I can't just piss behind the bush like the rest of the guys, ya know?" The reek of alcohol wafted from the girl, riding her breath.  
"Ugh, gee, Ranma!" Hiroshi exclaimed. "How much have you been drinking?" he said, pushing her away.  
She looked hurt -- for all of a second -- then shrugged and giggled. "I dunno!" A half-filled glass with some amber liquid was raised in mock salute. "I don't even know what this stuff is! People've been really nice, ya know?" Again she pulled in close, voice dropping to a loud conspiratorial whisper. "S'cus they know me 'n Akane broke up." She sniffed. "She was right ta dump me, ya know. I almost hurt her. But I didn't. I's bluffin'. I could never hurt her, I'd never hurt her, I'll _kill_ anyone who tries ta touch her. . ." and her voice grew vicious and loud by the last, then immediately died to a whisper, "but she don't know that. And now she's gone." She sniffed once more, glanced at her glass, and threw it all back with a single gulp. Ranma rose to her feet -- swayed slightly -- then grinned wildly. "Gee! That last drink of Daisuke's tore right through me! I gotta go potty! Bai bai!" She waved and stumbled off, passing through the patio doors.  
The couple looked at each other after Ranma left.  
"Wow. She's pretty messed up," said Sayuri.  
Hiroshi nodded wordlessly and stared back into the house.  
"You going after her?" she asked, almost in a sigh.  
And, to her surprise, he shook his head. "Nope," he said. "What can I do? This -- this is her problem. She's gotta deal with it herself. Besides, it's Ranma, she'll be fine." He stared off in the direction she went for a moment longer, then turned back to his girlfriend. With a goofy lecherous grin, he tugged her tightly up against him. "Besides," he whispered, "I'd much rather continue here. . . it's, um, a _lot_ more interesting. . ."  
With a blissful smile she reached for another kiss, and quickly picked up where they had left off. No one bothered them this time and, quite some time later, Sayuri decided that tonight had turned out to be a damn fine party after all.  
  
With weaving, woozy steps, the drunken pigtailed girl wound his way through the house. Somehow Ranma found his way upstairs, only stumbling once on the way up. Uncertain steps brought him to a couch, which he sank into gratefully. A moment's blurry rest, and then the increasing pressure on his bladder reminded him of why he was in the house in the first place, and he staggered back to his feet. He looked around dazedly, not actually knowing where the washroom was. The few people still awake in the room looked at the redhead curiously and then returned to their hushed discussion. They were sitting by the stereo and listening to soft music, nursing glasses of what was apparently water.  
Shrugging and still grinning stupidly, he chose a direction at random and wandered off. I wonder if this is what Ryoga usually feels like, Ranma thought to himself, and giggled. Hurried, unsteady feet carried him through the kitchen -- past cluttered, messy counters covered with dozens of dirty glasses, bottles, and cups scattered among spills, blobs of chips and dip, upturned salt shakers and little lemon wedges -- into an empty dining room, and finally down a hallway to the bedrooms.  
"Ya lookin' for the bathroom?"  
Ranma stopped, suddenly noticing the girl leaning against the wall next to a closed door. He nodded. "Yeah. S'this it?"  
"Yup. But yer gonna hafta wait -- s'busy!"  
"'kay!"  
The girl smiled and stuck out her hand. "Megumi. Tomobiki."  
"Ranma. Furinkan." He took the offered hand and shook. Loud, hacking retching sounds emanated from behind the door. The two girls winced.  
"That's my Seiji," said Megumi, looking slightly annoyed. "Never knows when to stop."  
"Ah," said Ranma, and hesitated, unsure of what else to add.  
A few moments passed until the sounds died out from within. The girl shook her head. "Stupid baka," she said, then turned her attention back to Ranma. She gestured at the bikini. "Went swimming?"  
"Yeah." Ranma nodded.  
"Nice bikini. Red suits ya."  
Ranma blushed. "Er, ah. . . thanks." He looked Megumi over, feeling he ought to return the compliment. Long, straight raven hair that fell to mid-back, striking against her pale skin, was pulled away from her forehead and kept tucked behind small, pierced ears. Dark eyes, large and friendly- looking, gazed from a thin, angular face; then she smiled casually and it softened her features, and Ranma decided that she was cute. She seemed a bit older, closer to Nabiki's age, or even Kasumi's, than to his own. She was also tall -- well, _everyone_ seemed tall to Ranma when he was in girl- form, he groused -- and slender, short black skirt leaving her legs bare. "Nice, um, blouse," he added, indicating the simple, loosely-fitting white shirt she was wearing.  
"Ain't it?" she asked, grinning. "Seiji bought it for my birthday. That your boyfriend's shirt?"  
"What?"  
"Well, it's kinda big for ya, ne? I figured he lent it to ya or somethin'." Megumi shrugged. "Sorry if I. . . ."  
"Ah, no, no, you -- you're right." Ranma flushed, feeling a bit awkward and embarrassed, but not up to getting into a detailed explanation of his life. Besides, he decided, it was kind of nice to talk to a girl who was not interested in marrying him, or hurting him, or who even knew about the curse. "S'my boyfr -- er, yeah, s'his."  
Megumi looked around for a second. "Yeah? So where is he?"  
Ranma's countenance darkened. "Gone. We had a fight. Sh -- he took off."  
The dark-haired girl's eyes widened in surprise. "Oh! Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't mean. . . ."  
"No, no, s'ok," started Ranma, shaking his head. But it was _not_ ok, and a savage pain that the alcohol had totally failed to drown returned. Akane, Akane, why? An image of her whirling, face twisted with rage, deservedly hitting him and screaming at him and leaving him, reared up in his mind; taking a deep shuddering breath he leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.  
A moment later he felt a comforting arm embrace her around the shoulder. "Aw, shit, I didn't mean to -- listen, Ranma, I'm sorry."  
He desperately shook his head, summoning all the resolve he could muster and pushing down on the emotions that threatened him; he took a bitter pleasure in reducing the overwhelming wash of depression to a mere trembling of his lower lip. "No, no," he said, feebly trying to get Megumi to release her grip. "It's -- s'nothin', really."  
"It's not _nothing_, girl," the taller girl insisted, and merely hugged him tighter.  
"No -- I -- please, just let me go," he begged, feeling his control erode, the last thing he wanted right now was compassion, he _deserved_ what Akane had done, every insult and punch, she was right to have broken the engagement, and now she was gone and there was no way, no _way_ things could be patched up after this argument, not after what he had done. "You -- you don't understand!"  
"Tell me."  
And, for some reason Ranma could not understand, he did. Somehow he managed to avoid revealing his true gender, and Akane's; or, if he did, Megumi glossed over it, or simply did not care. He started hesitantly, not even sure where to begin, but soon the words began to tumble out quickly and desperately. Most of what he said was no doubt incoherent, or muffled and slurred beyond recognition, and Ranma realized that it was not important, that merely _speaking_ them was a relief. Self-recrimination and loathing oozed from every word; anger and fury at Akane's barbs underscored them. And then at some point Ranma started crying without realizing, tears freely running down his face and blurring his vision; but he kept talking, and talking, and as he wound down, words emerging in hot, gasping sobs, he found his face buried in the girl's shoulder, kneeling on the ground, held in her arms, and felt weak and tired. "And, and," he tried to add, face burning, not with shame at his collapse, but with release.  
"S'okay," assured Megumi, soothingly petting down the redhead's hair. "S'okay." For a long moment Ranma remained huddled there, slowly relaxing and calming down, drawing some strange strength from the girl's embrace until, finally, he was released and fell back. "You feel better now?"  
Ranma nodded. He wondered if he ought to be ashamed. This was exactly what he had been afraid of -- he had felt his normal inhibition drop from drinking, had been afraid of what might happen if he drank more -- but _this_, this total loss of control, this collapsing into a stranger's arms, girlish sobbing and crying, so unmanly and. . . and _not_ embarrassing, he realized. He knew he should be, but he was not. The pain was still there, the ache and feeling of loss, but the tension had been released. For now, anyway. Wiping the tears from his eyes and peering blearily at his unexpected friend, he tried a tentative smile and gave a slight nod. "Ye -- yeah," he sighed.  
"You -- you really love him, don't you?" asked Megumi tentatively.  
And for once, slumped on the ground, bitter tears of loss and anger still drying on his face, the tight, stabbing pain still nascent and very much real, Ranma could not, would not deny his feeling. Maybe it was too late, maybe his stupidity and stubbornness had cost him Akane, but at least once, now, to this complete stranger, he would speak the truth. "Yes," he said miserably.  
"First one?"  
Ranma nodded his head sadly.  
"Aw, gee, that sucks," she said sincerely. "But, listen, don't worry 'bout it. I won't lie, it's gonna hurt for a while, but it'll get better, eventually. It will! Maybe you'll get back together. Maybe you won't. But it's not the end. . . ."  
This time Ranma shook his head despairingly. "No -- you, you don't understand," he started.  
Megumi kneeled down before the distraught girl, laying a comforting hand on one shoulder. "Yes, I do," she said. "Really. I've been through it -- most girls have. It sucks, it hurts, but it happens. And if he's stupid, and doesn't come back, then screw him! He's an idiot!" She grinned and an uplifting note filled her voice. "Heck, look at you! You're cute! You're attractive! If he doesn't come back, or waits too long -- heh, well, I don't think you'll have too much trouble finding another guy, ne?"  
He smiled wanly, not entirely thrilled at the prospect, but at least appreciative of the girl's efforts. Oddly enough, though, her comment was true: there were, after all, three other fiancees waiting in the wings. But -- but they were not Akane. "Yeah, I guess," he muttered.  
"That's the way," she said. "Feel better now?"  
Ranma nodded.  
"Good," she said, and stood up. "I think you needed that."  
"Uh-huh," he agreed. He tried standing but still felt weak. "This cryin' stuff's tiring," he said, reaching towards Megumi. With a kindly smirk she reached down and helped the exhausted girl up. After finding his somewhat wobbly feet he decided that maybe he had drank just a tad too much and leaned weakly against the opposite wall. His newfound friend resumed her position across from him.  
"I -- thanks," added Ranma after a moment. "I -- that was -- I. . . ."  
"Don't worry 'bout it," insisted Megumi, waving it off. "Shit happens. Hey, maybe you'll be there for me when this bozo," she jerked her thumb at the bathroom door, "dumps me."  
Ranma shook his head. "He won't dump ya," he assured her, "not if he's got half a brain."  
Megumi grinned, and so did Ranma. A moment later, his smile wavered and fell.  
"What?" asked the tall girl, as Ranma's expression turned to one of concern and pain. "What's wrong?"  
"I -- I kinda forgot with all that mushy stuff," said Ranma in a strained voice, "but now I _really_ hafta go to the bathroom!" Megumi smiled and turned to the bathroom door. She rapped on it with some force, while crying out, "Hey, Seiji! Ya almost done in there?"  
Fortunately Seiji _was_ done, and the door opened. A tall lanky boy that Ranma recognized from Furinkan stumbled out, looking slightly green and wiping the back of one hand across his mouth. His girlfriend caught him and helped keep him upright. The redhead dashed by into the bathroom, but hesitated at the threshold. "Megumi -- thanks. You really helped me here. I swear, I promise, if you ever need my help -- just ask. Ranma Saotome always remembers a friend."  
"Hey, ya don't hafta be so serious!" she said. "I was glad ta help!" And then, glancing at her partner, she added, "But, yeah, see ya later, 'kay Ranma? Think it's time Seiji and I head home. Bye!" She waved, and Seiji added a floppy gesture of his own that could be loosely interpreted as a wave, and the two stumbled away. Ranma watched after them for a moment, and then, nature repeating its rather forceful demand, he ran into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him.  
  
The party was very nearly over. The swimming pool, aside for one last couple slowly twirling together in the middle, was empty. A few guys were still softly talking by the dying embers of the fire, and a few girls were discussing life in general out on the porch. Gleefully passed out people were scattered everywhere, most of them purging excessive amounts of alcohol from their systems as they slept. Those still awake enough and sober enough were gathering their possessions and preparing to walk home, and designated drivers were finally getting to do their thing. Most of the partied-out students would have congratulated Kiyoshi on another excellent party, but he had disappeared into his bedroom hours ago. Throughout the house a peaceful, slumbering silence settled, broken only by the occasional grunt, whisper, or snore.  
Hiroshi and Sayuri slowly, reluctantly, separated, still cuddling out on the patio. With silly, blissful grins they leaned back into their seats, still holding hands, and quietly stared up at the night sky. With a sigh, a drunken, disgruntled, and somewhat more relaxed bully waved his friends off and staggered towards the house, occasional twinge of dull pain throbbing from his groin. A resigned and accepting Megumi, meanwhile, shoved her boyfriend into the backseat of a taxi and took the easy way home. Their drive along empty streets passed by a short-haired young girl sitting on a bench, head held despairingly in her hands.  
She looked up as the car went by. She was obviously depressed, eyes brimming with tears, hunched over in her seat. With a sniff the girl wiped a sleeve across her face. For a long time she remained still, staring into the clear Nerimean night as if in thought, and then, slowly, a look of resolve hardened her features, and with a determined frown Akane Tendo leapt to her feet and stormed back the way she had come.  
  
With a sigh of immense relief Ranma leaned back on the toilet and answered the call of nature. As he settled back on the seat he began to relax. Eyes slowly closed as a warm fuzziness spread throughout his body, a deep lethargy settling into his limbs. It was so enjoyable, comfortable, and the temptation to simply give in and fall asleep was almost overpowering. Except -- except that, somehow, he had to get home. Had to find Akane. Had to -- apologize, or tell her how he felt, or. . . something. Whatever doubts and concerns had assailed him tonight, this he knew beyond a doubt: he had to talk to Akane. He _would_ talk to her. Only -- only he was so tired, and the toilet was so surprisingly comfortable. . .  
No. He shook his head. He had something to do. Blinking, Ranma opened his eyes, letting go of the soft darkness. Looking around the washroom he realized that it resembled the Tendos' considerably. Well, except that the Tendo's toilet is on the first floor, he remembered. Or was that the second? Sheesh, he thought wryly, I must be pretty drunk if I can't even remember where the toilet is. Next I'll be forgetting where my bedroom is. He noticed the full length mirror hanging on the back of the door across from him. Who puts a mirror in a place where you can see yourself shit, he wondered idly. He disliked the image the mirror reflected: a young redheaded pigtailed girl peering drunkenly, face blotchy, eyes and nose red and puffy, her bikini bottom tangled loosely around her ankles. The bikini peeking through her loose Chinese shirt made it look like she was wearing a bra, and for some reason that angered her terribly. Damn stupid curse, he swore, everything that's happened tonight is its fault. This, this -- woman's body, is nothing to take pride in -- it cost me Akane, it cost me my friends. . . hell, I can't even piss outside like the rest of the guys!  
With something akin to shame he remembered a night from long ago, early after the trip to Jusenkyo: the day that Ranma and his father had left the training grounds, they had, of course, been immediately rained upon. Grumbling, still secretly horrified and alien to his new body, he had slowly become aware of a pressing concern -- the need to urinate. Only -- he had had no idea how. The normal parts were gone; would it work the same way now that he was a girl? He had held it off as long as he could, desperately holding back and hoping to stumble across a hot spring or something. Finally, though, the urge had became too great and, grabbing a roll of toilet paper from his backpack, he had disappeared behind some trees. Quickly tearing off his gi pants, he had then learnt that, yes, he knew how to pee; at least, the pressure was great enough that the body did so on its own. But it had been an intensely shameful experience: not only frightening and uncomfortable, it had also forced him to confront the newness of the parts between his legs for the first time, something he had despairingly tried to avoid. Worse, though, was not knowing what to expect, or even how to stand; squatting, half-naked and miserable in the Chinese wilderness, his own urine dribbling down his leg, had left him feeling humiliated and degraded, while wiping himself down afterwards had forced closeness with feminine parts he had never seen nor felt before, and he could have cried, but back then he was stronger, still a man despite everything, he never cried, unlike now.  
For now he knew how to pee like a girl without any problem whatsoever, and that very knowledge scared him and shamed him as much if not more than the original experience ever had. There were so many things he knew how to do like a girl now: he could piss like one and shit and bleed like one, and wear makeup and dresses and sit with crossed legs like one, and talk and look and act like one, so well that you would never know he was anything else _but_ a girl, and. . . . Enough!  
Vivid anger at his own weakness temporarily overcame his exhaustion of mind and body. Enough of this crap. There was no use in feeling sorry for himself. Despite all the shitty things that had happened tonight -- way too much thinking, and feeling, and talking, and. . . and that thing with Akane -- the night had not been _all_ bad. Ranma had enjoyed some parts of the party: talking with the guys and, if even only for a short while, feeling like part of the gang; stepping aside with Hiroshi, 'bonding', even though the conversation material was decidedly uncomfortable; and especially the time spent swimming and the fun in the pool. For the first time he could remember he had felt like part of a group -- part of a group whose only bond was _not_ martial arts, or revenge, or marital desires. If only everything else could have turned out better.  
Ranma looked up at the bathroom sink sitting flush against the wall. Hot water. If this body is such an annoyance, he might as well get rid of it. Besides, a thought in the back of his head suggested, maybe he would be better able to fight off the effects of the alcohol as a man. Hours ago (or so it seemed) he had entered this house with the intention of turning into a man; since then he had fought and swam and cried, and despite everything that had happened he was still a girl. Well, now he could finish what he had started way back then. Who cared if he ended up looking like a total idiot, male and wearing a girl's bikini. Although, he realized glancing down, it might be a little. . . tight, and a bit uncomfortable once he changed back. He shrugged. Whatever. He just wanted to go home. Assuming he still had one.  
Desire suddenly crystalizing into motion, he lifted off the toilet, already reaching for the faucet. But then his legs, his arms and body failed him. With a queasy lurch his legs turned to rubber beneath him and with a strangled yelp he collapsed forward. Unexpectedly weak arms refused to respond, and he pitched forward, head knocking painfully hard against the edge of the bathroom counter. Ranma slumped dazedly to the ground.  
Well this certainly sucks, he thought groggily, laying sprawled on the washroom floor and seeing stars, as encroaching darkness snuck in at the edges of vision.  
  
Darkness. Numbness. Silence and sensation of floating.  
Unfamiliar voices:  
"Hey, c'mon man, lets go!"  
"Yeah, just a sec'. Gotta go piss."  
Fumbling at the door, it creaked open.  
"Hurry, will ya?"  
"I'll just be a. . . shit! Man!"  
"What?"  
"Come see this!"  
"What?"  
"There's some chick passed out on the floor!"  
"Really?"  
A brief pause.  
"See?"  
"Oh, wow, it's. . . ." A brief snicker.  
"Hey man, I can see her. . . ."  
"Hey! You pervert!"  
"Yeah, like you weren't staring too!"  
This time a contemplative silence.  
"So what do we do?"  
"I dunno. We can't leave her there."  
"Nope."  
"Errr. . . maybe someone oughta, ah, you know, pull her bikini up?"  
Now an awkward silence.  
"Um. Sure."  
Another pause, and then nervous fumbling at his feet. Feeling of the bottom being drawn up along legs, then left at the waist, slightly twisted and uncomfortable.  
"Ah. . . is it up?"  
"I dunno. I ain't lookin'. Can't you see?"  
"Nope. Ain't lookin' either."  
Sound of shuffling feet.  
"Good enough. Now what?"  
"I guess we haul her outta here. Dump her in one of the bedrooms?"  
"Guess so. Let her sleep it off."  
Movement. Hands grabbing him by the feet, and beneath the arms. Sudden lurch, and effortlessly supported in the air, being carried. It felt like flying.  
"You know, I can't stand it when girls can't hold their liquor. You'd think they'd learn their limits and not count on someone ta look after 'em."  
A chuckle.  
"What?"  
"Nothin'. I'll tell ya later."  
"Huh."  
A few more lurching steps.  
"Ya know, she's pretty cute. I'm surprised she don't have a boyfriend lookin' after her. I mean, leavin' a girl like this, like that, it's not. . . ."  
Another chuckle.  
"What?"  
"Heh. Trust me, no boyfriend. No guy'll ever go out with her."  
"What? Why not? I mean, I'd. . . ."  
A laugh.  
"No, no you wouldn't. Trust me. Her name's Ranma."  
"So? Odd name, but. . . ."  
"You're not from Furinkan. I'll tell ya after. Hey, can ya get the door?"  
"Uh, sure."  
Disorienting swaying, feet dipping, awkward handling of a door. It creaked. Movement resumed.  
"I'm surprised she's so light."  
"Why? She's not that big."  
"Yeah. It's just. . . ah, forget it. There. The bed. We'll just dump her."  
"Okay."  
Brief moment of no support, queasy spinning falling, then bouncy yielding impact. Perfumed floral comfort and sinking rest.  
"Think she'll be ok?"  
"Yeah."  
"Man, she must've drank a load."  
"Yeah. She got dumped tonight. Guess she took it pretty rough."  
"Dumped _her_? Idiot."  
Again a laugh. "Let me tell you a few things about this delightful redhead, my friend. . . ."  
Click.  
Soft, definitive sound of the door being shut. Ranma was left in the darkness, alone.  
  
Spinning. The world was spinning, yet Ranma remained still. Everything was dark and quiet. He felt pinned to the bed. Incessant debilitating vertigo tugged at him. A slow dizzying tilting and turning of the bed threatened to throw him to the ground. The feeling grew worse with time, as did the precariousness of his hold on the sheets. He tried to grip the bed tightly, but it felt as if his hand was a mile away, a numb tingly lump far away stuck at the end of the unresponsive leaden weight that was his arm, fingers and thumb moving sluggishly and twitchingly as he let out an unconscious nauseous moan, room twirling and whirling. Both eyes fluttered open, and he was thankful for the darkness. It masked from his sight the world spinning around his still body. Eyes slowly closed and he sighed. The sickening rise and fall within would not stop.  
This feels like Akane's cooking, he decided, or like Kodachi's love. Wait. Could love be felt that way? Could he feel love? Was this love, this queasy painful bitter feeling inside, this sharp bitter emptying rising feeling as his stomach twisted and his body heaved and his throat gave a spasm. . . There was no confusion for his body, which responded quickly despite its sluggishness, heavily turning on one side, mouth coughing open and splattering stream of reeking acerbic fluid spewing out. Several moments of feeble hacking and thick drooling later he collapsed back onto the bed. Oh, he thought, it wasn't love, I was just sick.  
But with the painful partial purging accomplished the swaying and surging subsided. The bed softened and opened and accepted him into its embrace, and Ranma gladly sank into the welcoming comfort. Yet as eagerly expected and desired sleep approached, the warmth and padded depths closed in, became cloying, smothering, claustrophobic, and with sudden violent intense physicality he wanted free, wanted escape, and one arm actually responded, flailing wildly before falling to the mattress with a dull thump, muffled slurred cry choked by the darkness and pressing, closing walls. . . . Squeamish sickening sensation slowly returned as a very slight spinning inexorably resumed and again forced him onto the bed, forced him deeper into its now unwelcome clutches. He would have cried out again, but what was the point? He was alone. Sick and alone in the dark.  
Where he belonged, as he deserved. He was a man, he had threatened Akane, she had been harmed, it was his fault, real men never hurt girls. He was a man. Despite the curves of his body, the hated softness over once- hard pectorals, roundness of unmanly hips and rear, round soft curve between legs, he was a man, he had arrived at the party as a man, had escorted Akane here as a man. Don't you hang around me, he heard her say, I don't know why you came, the last thing I need is a perverted unwanted fiance hanging around me at the party. They were walking on the sidewalk, the sun just beginning to dip beneath the horizon, fiery highlights glimmering in her hair. Don't worry, you uncute tomboy, he answered, it's not like I'd want to, and she responded with a hit, and it hurt, he could almost feel the blows land on stomach and head and arms, knew it was useless trying to apologize but gratefully whispered her name as the pain subsided and faded and the bed softly pushed him back up to the surface and the awful lurching slowed.  
Click.  
If only she would come back. But why should she, and how could he possibly return to the Tendos after what he had done? Even Kasumi would fault him, would be unable to forgive him, and rightfully so. Was there any forgiveness or understanding for him out there? Hiroshi. Hiroshi would understand, he had understood everything tonight, had been a good friend and knew far far too much about him now, how could he be trusted? Because you're a friend, dammit, exclaimed Hiroshi. What do you think? Playful jumbled sounds drifted in the background, flickering halogen light sharpening features and flaws. He could hear the odd beating of large wings. What do I think, answered Ranma, I think I would like to have a friend.  
Hiroshi smiled. I just want you to have a good time, he said, we'll make this a night you'll never forget, and Ranma smiled as well, snaking forward, rising sinuously before Hiroshi, breasts thrust forward and hips swaying and hands playing in her hair, unravelling it so that it fell in crimson locks about her face, and she fell with the cascading curls, collapsing back into the bed, Hiroshi's eyes burning into her and staring at her face, at her breasts, and then fading into the dark. Why, he moaned, how can Hiroshi be my friend if he thinks of me that way, was there anyone who could see past the curse and be a friend with _him_, not with the man, not with the woman, but with Ranma?  
Aren't I your friend, asked a voice, and the tremulous bilious lurching faded. He smiled at the sound. Yes. Yes. And he relaxed. But then his friend approached and Ranma twitched, something was wrong and he felt afraid and weak, and let out a soft whimper, writhing and tangling with the sheets and scrabbling feebly into the mattress. Thanks for totally ruining my night, Ranma, the voice whispered, drawing back, taking with it the fear but also leaving him alone. Don't leave me, he sighed, all I want is to belong.  
Like at the pool. Cool nurturing welcoming water rushed up to meet him as he plunged towards the flowing blue; thunderous splash and deflected impact as he sliced into the depths. Everything was subdued: sounds were softened, downward pull gone, harsh edges to sight and senses reduced. Comforting pressure pressed in and supported him from all sides, pushing against stomach and legs, beneath arms and teasingly pulling at hair, and prodding, feeling, rubbing at breasts. . . Breasts. Always his body betrayed him, he could not even remember what it was like to swim as a boy, unashamedly topless and free to walk without being ogled. But this once, did it matter? For as he surfaced, people were waiting for him: Furinkan schoolmates, talking and joking with sparkling eyes and easy laughter, accepting his presence and drawing him into the group. An unconscious smile grew and his body relaxed as the water pulled away and carefully deposited him dry and limp back upon the bed, light sounds of casual and friendly chatter still filling his ears. A contented giggle escaped his lips as the internal roiling faded and the warm expansive lethargy took its place, leaving Ranma lying wonderfully at ease. A caressing wind blew tentatively across his body, leaving tingling faint lingering touches across his body, over thighs and lips and neck and breasts. Then the voices distorted, became mocking and unpleasant; the pleasant contentment he had enjoyed slipped away, leaving a vague discomfort and creeping growing fear. He was _too_ relaxed, too at ease -- when had he ever been this relaxed as a girl around others? The mocking, snide laughter grew, grew, reached a cacophonic crescendo within his pained ears. . . . He whimpered, hands clasped tightly over ears but achieving nothing. . . and then the noise faded as on a current of air.  
The wind grew colder. Now it was clammy, chilling, and unwelcome, and Ranma curled up into a ball, shivering and lips trembling. With stuttering shaky movements he tried to burrow beneath the sheet, but the welcome lethargy of a moment ago now constrained him, limbs weak and lifeless once more. Acidic sharp taste rose in his throat again and he moaned. Of course he was cold, he realized. He was wet and it was cold and all he was wearing was a stupid bikini. Swimming was fun, joining classmates was fun, but at what cost? Something was thrust into his hands, and he looked as a voice echoed within, Here, enjoy, I hope it was worth it. A bikini; as he recognized the swimwear, it leapt from his grasp onto his body and tightly conformed to his female curve, as the voice continued scornfully, What kind of man _wants_ to wear this, huh? With burning spreading shame -- so intense it banished the numbing cold -- Ranma knew it was true. Wearing this proved what he was: a girl, for how could she be a manly man and yet be wearing women's clothing? This shred of clothing, everything it represented, had cost her too much, still bound her in orange- red strings, and she desperately wanted it off, to be free of it. As she clawed at her clothing, fumbled weakly within the constraints of her shirt, tugging awkwardly at clasps and ties, the voice continued mockingly, See if I care, maybe you really _are_ a girl. . . .  
I'm not a girl, I'm not, she cried, still struggling with his clothing, aren't I, am I a girl? And a suddenly vivid voice whispered in his ear, yes, yes, Ranma, you are, please be a girl; but Ranma ignored the familiar voice and attacked the ties behind her back. I'll prove I'm not a girl, she insisted, I'll discard my femininity, I'll peel it off as I do this bikini; and now the task seemed much easier, almost as if she was being helped. The top came off quickly and was flung aside; with much wiggling and a final kick the bottom was yanked free. Ha, he cried, I _am_ a man, and collapsed exhausted on the bed, numb but finally free of hated femaleness. Ranma smiled. At last.  
But if he was free and happy, why did he feel so sick and scared? Don't be scared, whispered a voice, I would never hurt you. I love you. The voice was Akane's, had to be, had to be: for he now knew that he loved her, and that she must love him, after all, had she not come back to him, even after all the terrible things he had said and done? Was she not tending his wounds, healing him with bandages and words, curing the bruising of his ego and the loss of something precious? The hard floor of the dojo was beneath them, a dozen smarting wounds stinging his body, and Akane was kneeling across from him. Do you love me, she asked, would you kiss me? This time he got the answer right: If. . . if you don't mind, he said, looking up shyly, then I don't, and he sat up in the bed and embraced and kissed her and told her, yes, I do, more than anything, and the final liberation of those words was greater than anything, it sent a resonating escalating glow that followed, enhanced, the echoing pulse in his breasts. They fell into each other and it seemed to Ranma that they were as one, holding and kissing and touching one another, and the passion was so great and consuming that he could not sustain it and after an indefinable confused time he collapsed back, unmoving and spent on the bed, but no longer alone.  
I'm sorry, Ranma, I'm so sorry, whispered the voice, and there was sudden, vicious pain, the wonderful awaited and accepted oneness becoming too much for him, the presence too much, it overwhelmed him in his sickened weakness. But as soon as it began, it ended and pulled away, and the pain of the separation was as terrible as the consuming, it carried away a certainty and a unity, and he released a moan, No, but already the voice, the presence, Akane, was gone. . .  
click,  
. . . and Ranma was once again alone in the dark and the cold upon the crumpled sheets, burning bile and rising stomach, spinning room, tilting bed, approaching darkness, and falling, falling, falling into painless nothingness. . . .  
Nothing. . . .  
Until a voice once again intruded, with painful light piercing swollen eyelids and surprised, looming face. "Ranma? RANMA!" Akane. She had not left him after all, she had come back for him, and he smiled at her, glad to have told her how he truly felt and shared that moment with her. He fell back down into the darkness and softness and her waiting arms, her name on his breath.  
  
*** The Party Ends ***  
  
Continues in Choices: Dilemma 


	2. Choices: Dilemma

Choices  
  
Part Two: Dilemma by Michael Noakes  
  
Slow, reluctant rise out of comforting darkness. Unwilling awakening to dull throbbing pain lurking within his skull. Queasy, empty feeling in the stomach. General sensation of body weariness and irritating tingly sensitivity of the skin. Foul, pasty taste to the mouth, tongue feeling unpleasantly thick. Tentative opening of one eye -- then immediate squeezing shut, despite the relative darkness of the room.  
Ranma groaned. He felt terrible. He wanted to sleep some more. He turned over onto one side.  
"Oh no you don't!" A voice interrupted his suffering. "Time to get up!" A woman. Cheerful sounding, but with an undeniable authoritative edge. There was the sound of curtains being drawn, and annoying, unwanted light flooded the room. "You've slept long enough!"  
"No -- no," he moaned pathetically. "I don't wanna get up, Mom!" Mom. Mom? "MOM!" he exclaimed, bolting into a sitting position, sheets flying from the sudden movement. Interesting lights flared before his eyes. Fear clutched him, almost strong enough to overcome the redoubled pounding of his skull. Ranma clutched his head in pain while peering, terrified, through a mess of bangs at the tall woman. Nodoka finished drawing back the last curtain, turned around, and smiled.  
"Good morning, Ranko!" she said. "Sorry, dear, your mom is not here. Just me."  
Ranma blinked up confusedly at his mother, and then, slowly, looked down at himself. For perhaps the first time, the sight of breasts on his chest -- still bound in Akane's bikini -- comforted him. With a sigh of relief he relaxed. "Oh. Ah, hi. . . Auntie Saotome," he stammered.  
His mother kneeled next to him. "How are you feeling?" she asked softly, smoothing back the redhead's hair. Ranma realized that his hair was unbound and flowing freely, and somewhat messily, down his back. He blew a few wayward strands out of his face, which his mom secured behind the ears.  
"Ah. . . fi -- fine, I guess," he answered. Then seeing the knowing look in his mother's eyes, he grinned weakly. "Terrible."  
She nodded as she stood. "I'll get you something to drink which should help to soothe your stomach, Ranko. I will be back in a moment." She stepped away, but paused a moment before leaving the room. "You know, Ranko, it really is not ladylike to drink so much," she said disapprovingly, then turned and left the room.  
"Yeah, no kidding," he muttered as she slid the door shut behind her. Ranma slowly lowered himself onto his futon, throwing one arm across his eyes to block out the light. What is she doing here, he wondered. Then a moment later: what am _I_ doing here? Last he could remember was. . . the pool? Diving. Drinking. Playful splashing and swimming and relaxed fun.  
No.  
There was. . . something else. A girl? A name hovered at the edge of his mind. A bathroom? A snapshot image flashed through his head: counter, rug, curtains, shower, toilet. Was it at Kiyoshi's place? He could not remember. Strange. Normally I'm really good with names and places and stuff, he thought. It's not like me to forget. . . .  
Forget. . . . He was forgetting something. He knew it. Something important. His brow furrowed in intense concentration as he forced sluggish thoughts backwards: before swimming, he had stepped into the house, looking for some hot water, and he had bumped into. . . .  
Akane.  
Ranma jerked suddenly upright once again, eyes widening in horror. "Oh no," he whispered, suddenly oblivious to the renewed pounding in his head. An angry loud voice echoed through his mind:  
"You pervert!  
"What kind of _guy_ hangs around other guys wearing a _girl's_ bathing suit?  
"Some man, some fiance you are!"  
He winced at the memory -- at his retaliation:  
"You wanted to come here, alone, right? Well, fine. Then you can leave here, alone, too! You didn't want me hangin' around you at the party? Fine! Then why should I hang around you _after_ the party?  
"After all, being alone suits you, ne? S'not like anyone _here_ cares if you stay or go. _I_ certainly don't!"  
And then, worst of all:  
"Let go." Her demand.  
"No." His refusal.  
And he had pressed down on her wrist. He had inflicted pain upon her.  
Ranma buried his face in his hands. Akane's voice, dangerously soft, returned to him, accompanied this time with the image of her face, red and furious and strangely sad: "I hate you," she said, and soon after: "Our engagement is over, Ranma." The words had been spoken with a chilling certainty and finality that left little doubt in Ranma's mind that whatever had existed between them before was irrevocably over.  
With a groan he sank back onto his futon.  
Soon after, the door slid open once again. "Ranko. . . Ranko, come on now, I thought I asked you to get up?" He turned his head slightly and watched as his mom stepped back into his room. With a sigh she placed a small tray next to the futon. Faint wisps of steam escaped from the spout of the small porcelain kettle sitting on the tray; a cup lay next to it. Ranma could not help but look at the kettle somewhat nervously. "Here," said Nodoka. "This should help. It is a special Saotome recipe, renowned for easing the effects of too much drinking. At least," and she smiled slightly, almost wistfully, "it helped my husband the many times I served it to him." Nodoka poured him a cupful of tea.  
Smiling tentatively in return, Ranma accepted her offer. "Er -- thanks," he said, raising the teacup to his lips.  
"Don't thank me until you taste it, dear," she answered, a slightly mischievous glint to her eyes. Ranma cast an inquisitive look at his mother over the rim of the cup, then took a deep drink.  
The liquid was hot, bitter, thick, and thoroughly unpleasant. He almost gagged at the unexpected taste. "No -- finish it, Ranko!" insisted his mother forcefully, when, grimacing, he pulled the cup away.  
"But. . . ."  
"Ranko. . . ."  
With a groan, he held his breath and tried a second time. The pungent liquid tasted like something Akane would cook up, he thought wryly, as the last drop finally slid sluggishly down his throat.  
"There. That was not so bad, now was it, Ranko?"  
"Oh, not at all, Auntie Saotome," he said, leveling an even stare at her and smiling crookedly. "Just. . . wonderful."  
Nodoka gave a small laugh. "It _is_ rather terrible, isn't it?"  
Ranma nodded emphatically as his mother poured out another cup. "How much of this do I hafta drink, anyway?"  
"Depends on when you feel good enough to get up," answered the taller woman, smiling.  
"Ah." He took the second cup and sniffed at it, nose wrinkling at the piercing scent. "Ugh. Then I think I'll be getting up soon, then."  
"That's the whole point, dear!"  
Ranma snorted, but gamely tried another tentative sip. It tasted just as bad as before. "Does it hafta taste and smell so bad?" he asked.  
Nodoka giggled, and leaned in closer. "The truth, Ranko?" she whispered conspiratorially. "No!"  
"But. . . ."  
"I got into the habit of adding a few extra ingredients when I made it for my husband. Oh, how he hated the taste of it! It was just an extra incentive for him to not drink." She contemplated that idea for a moment. "Not, mind you, that it ever helped."  
Ranma giggled in turn. Then he looked down at the viscous, dark drink, and shook his head. "Well, I'm certainly not gonna drink again! Ever!"  
"The amount of times Genma said that as well!"  
No kidding, thought Ranma. Pop sure never gave up drinking after leaving home. At least, he drank enough while we wandered across Japan -- a fair bit in China -- and it certainly didn't get any better after Jusenkyo. But after last night -- no. The fight with Akane, all the stuff he had told his classmates, even the stupid scanty bathing suit he was _still_ wearing: it was all the fault of last night's drinking. Akane. He sighed.  
"Is there something wrong, Ranko?" asked his mother, looking down at him with concern.  
Ranma shook his head, sighing again. "Ah, gee, Auntie Saotome. It's -- it's nothing. . . ." And then, suddenly, "Umm -- is everyone else here?"  
"Everyone? Or someone in particular, Ranko?"  
He looked at her suspiciously, but continued, "Is Akane here?"  
Nodoka smiled. "Yes, Akane is here. She was quite worried about you, Ranko."  
"Worried?"  
Nodoka nodded. "And a little angry, too, I suppose," she said. "Although. . . ."  
He drooped and sighed. Angry. Of course Akane would be angry. She had every reason to be, especially after what he had said and done. But it's her fault too, whispered a voice in the back of his head. She insulted you first, she blamed you first, she _started_ it. He cringed. No! He was to blame in this. No matter what she had said or done, Ranma knew he had gone too far this time. He had threatened her. He had almost hurt her. He had broken his promise and ruined her night. It had been her evening out, and he had selfishly pushed her aside and made it his own. Ranma's face burned red with shame.  
". . . I really can't blame her," continued his mother. "After all, I am fairly angry with you myself, Ranko." A note of sternness entered Nodoka's voice, and the Saotome 'daughter' stared shamefacedly at her futon.  
"I. . . I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I didn't mean to. . . ." His voice choked. He was almost surprised at his own reaction; the feeling in his stomach, the trembling, the fear. Everybody knew. Even his mother. What had he done?  
A single finger gently lifted his chin up, and caring eyes looked down at him. "Ranko," said Nodoka, still firm, but with added compassion and softness. "I know you did not mean to -- but we did expect you to be more responsible. I do not approve of you drinking, but if you do -- do you not think that, maybe, you should be a little more careful?"  
Ranma looked up at her in surprise. Was that it? What about. . . .  
"You were lucky to have Akane there to watch over you," added the elder Saotome. "Really, Ranko, drinking to the point of passing out! I expected better from you! If your cousin had not found you and carried you home, who knows what could have happened! With all. . . ."  
"I passed out?" he interrupted. "Akane carried me home?"  
"You don't remember?"  
He closed his eyes, tried thinking back again. Talking with friends. Hiroshi. Fighting with Akane (he winced unconsciously at that once again). Swimming. And then . . . and then . . . blank. He shook his head. "I . . . no. I can't!"  
"What were you thinking, Ranko?"  
Ranma looked confused for a moment. "Huh?"  
"Drinking like that? With all those. . . those boys around!"  
"So?"  
Nodoka looked at him disbelievingly. "A pretty young girl like yourself, drunk, defenseless, dressed like that, surrounded by. . . ."  
"Oh, Auntie -- I don't think you have to worry about that," he said dismissively, smirking. "Trust me: the guys at the party don't. . . ah, think of me that way. Heh. You could kinda say they think of me as 'just one of the guys'." But that's not quite true, now is it, intruded a voice in the back of his head. Hiroshi sure thought you were hot, didn't he? So did the other guys. The way they were looking at you -- they sure don't look at each other that way. The smile slipped, and Nodoka's half- concerned, half-annoyed look deepened.  
"Ranko. . . ."  
"No, really," he insisted. "Ok, maybe they _do_ look at me kinda funny sometimes, but they wouldn't _dare_ touch me." 'Cus I'd kill 'em, he thought grimly. Besides, they all know I'm really a guy, anyway. Some of 'em may be perverts -- but they're not _that_ bad! "Really, Auntie! If they tried. . . ." He inserted a slightly threatening undercurrent to his voice and mimicked throwing a few punches.  
His mother smiled slightly despite herself. "You are such a tomboy, sometimes," she said, shaking her head and standing. "Sometimes I despair of ever making a young lady out of you!"  
"I'm pretty hopeless, ain't I?"  
Nodoka cast a critical eye over her protege. "Well. . . I know one place to start. We need to get you washed up and into some decent clothing."  
Ranma wholeheartedly agreed. He looked down at himself, peeked beneath the sheets: he was still wearing nothing more than Akane's bikini. He felt dirty and grimy and, taking a sniff, he noticed that he even smelt funny, too. His mother was right -- a nice, hot bath, and. . . . He looked up at his mother and sighed. Well, ok, maybe a not-as-nice cold scrubbing, instead, and he would feel a _lot_ better. The threat of his mother's idea of 'decent clothing' kind of worried him, but he felt he had already disappointed her enough already. Disappointed everyone, really. He had a feeling that today was going to be a very long, very rough day.  
"I'll go and make you a light lunch, ok, Ranko?" said his mother, heading for the door.  
He nodded, paused, then turned to her. "Lunch?"  
"Oh my, didn't you realize? You slept most of the day away, dear. It is already almost three o'clock in the afternoon!" she answered, and left the room.  
He groaned once again. Maybe not such a long day after all. His one day off, and he wasted it away nursing a hangover. _Definitely_ the last time he would ever drink, he vowed -- it simply was not worth it. Eventually, and with a final sigh, he stood up and headed to his dresser. Grabbing a towel and taking a deep breath, he prepared himself for the inevitable and headed for the bathroom.  
  
Nodoka Saotome whistled a happy tune as she prepared a light meal for Ranko, hands working with unconscious ease. She always felt comfortable and welcome at the Tendos'; it was strange, really, that one place could generate such feeling of both pleasure and profound disappointment. Once again, her son and husband were gone, training. Though she recognized the need for constant diligence and practice -- how else would her Ranma truly become a man of honor, a man among men -- she still missed them terribly. Every time she visited, every time she discovered that they had already left, she invariably felt depressed. . . momentarily. For on every visit, there was also Ranko.  
Ranko. Such a sweet, spunky, vibrant girl; such a tomboy! So beautiful and confident, almost cocky and arrogant, and yet obviously so unsure of her own femininity and insecure in her development. It had never been made clear, but Nodoka surmised that the young girl was motherless; or perhaps Ranko and her mother simply were not on speaking terms. Whatever the reasons, the Tendo cousin obviously needed and sought female guidance -- a sort of mother-figure, as it were. And Nodoka -- Nodoka was more than pleased to fill that role.  
She frowned slightly as she stirred the broth. Judging by Ranko's current condition, it was also clear that that role needed filling _now_. Drinking to the point of passing out? Picking a fight at the party? According to Akane, her cousin had even been flirting with many of the boys there! Unbelievable. Worse, she seemed utterly clueless as to what could happen to a pretty young girl at a party like that. The matriarch shook her head; Ranko and her were going to have a little 'mother' and 'daughter' talk, soon, before she left.  
"Mmmm.. . . ." A voice interrupted her reverie. Nodoka glanced back as Nabiki stepped into the kitchen. "Smells wonderful, Mrs. Saotome!"  
Nodoka smiled. "Thank you, Nabiki," she said, returning to her soup. Reaching over, she lifted up the pile of sliced green onions on the blade of her cutting knife, and slid them into the simmering broth. "I'm making a soup for Ranko. With her stomach as queasy as it is, I doubt she could handle anything much heavier." As she talked she continued adding to her soup: celery, carrots, leeks.  
The middle Tendo daughter stepped up to the stove and peered in. "Looks good," she said appreciatively, but with a slight smirk. Nodoka gave her an inquisitive glance. Nabiki noticed and grinned. "I was just thinking of Ranko. How's she feeling?"  
"As well as can be expected, I suppose, since I assume it was her first time drinking." She paused for a moment. "It _was_ her first time, I imagine?"  
Nabiki shrugged. "As far as I know."  
"Good. And I hope it was her last. It simply is not ladylike to drink like that."  
"No kidding. You'd almost think she was a _boy_, the way she drank last night!"  
"Now, now," gently scolded Nodoka, "it is not nice to make fun of your cousin like that."  
"I know," said Nabiki. "I know. It's just. . . well, you weren't there, Mrs. Saotome. Ranko looked so rough -- so _funny_, when Akane dragged her home last night. And she was spouting absolute gibberish, too. It was the first time I've seen. . . Ranko, heh, drunk. Absolutely priceless -- and I've got the pictures to prove it!"  
"Nabiki!"  
The young girl grinned. Nodoka turned back to her soup, hiding a slight creasing of her brow. After all, they were not her children -- but sometimes, she found Nabiki to be just a little too brash for her own good. But it was not her place to say anything. Instead, she gave her soup a taste and nodded in satisfaction.  
"Almost done," she announced. "Would you like some?"  
Nabiki took another sniff, and nodded. "For sure!"  
"Do you think Akane would like some as well?"  
"Well," answered the Tendo, "She's been out in the dojo all day -- which means that she's probably pretty hungry." She paused as if in thought for a moment. "Did you mention whether Ranko was coming down any time soon?"  
Nodoka pulled a small stack of bowls from the kitchen cupboard. "Ranko should be down any moment, the poor dear. She said she would eat right after a quick bath."  
"In a moment?" said Nabiki, grinning evilly. "I'll go get Akane right away!" The girl turned and quickly strode from the kitchen.  
  
Nabiki frowned as she watched her younger sister finish a kata in the dojo. The piles of shattered cinder blocks were expected; this was not. Akane was completely immersed within her movements, moving with an intensity and -- and abandon, Nabiki realized, that was quite unusual for her. And yet, for all her concentration, Akane's form was flawed, uncontrolled, almost sloppy. Even Nabiki could tell. Which meant that something was bothering her sister, something important. It suddenly occurred to Nabiki that, perhaps, something more serious than just Ranma getting drunk and making an idiot of himself had happened at the party last night.  
"Hey, Akane," she called out, stepping into the training hall.  
Her sister started at the sudden interruption, and completed her technique messily. "Na - Nabiki," she said, giving her head a little shake. "I didn't hear you come in."  
"You ok, Sis?" interrupted the older sister. "You look a bit out of it."  
Akane flushed slightly as she wiped the sleeve of her gi across her forehead. "It - it's nothing, Nabiki. Just having a bit of trouble concentrating."  
Obviously, thought Nabiki, but why? No doubt that idiot Saotome had insulted her or something last night. Akane's recount of the party had been rather sketchy this morning, and her story had been full of holes, leaving large sections of the night unaccounted for. Nabiki had thought nothing of it -- what reason had she to be suspicious? If Ranma had done anything to annoy her, Akane could be counted on to let the world know (as she had this morning); and if her sister had been up to anything more. . . serious, like drinking or something, than what of it? Nabiki had had her first experimence with alcohol at the very same party last year, and remembered that night quite fondly; why deny Akane the same?  
But, obviously, _something_ had not gone well. Perhaps she ought to give a few friends a call.  
"So what did you want, Nabiki?" asked Akane.  
"Huh? Oh. Aunt Saotome just made some soup. She wants to know if you're hungry. Smells good!"  
Akane seemed to consider it for a moment, then gave a single nod. "Sure. I guess I am," she answered, and fell into step beside her sister.  
"So how are you feeling?" asked Nabiki.  
Akane shot her a sideway glance. "Fine. Why?"  
"You just seem a bit. . . tense. Still pissed off at Ranma?"  
They stepped up onto the veranda. "I don't want to talk about it, Nabiki."  
"Oh, c'mon, Sis. You sort of glossed over the details -- what did he do? Fool around behind your. . . ," prodded Nabiki.  
"I said," exclaimed Akane loudly, as they stepped into the house, "I don't want to talk about that perverted jerk!"  
Sudden silence greeted their arrival. Looking around, Nabiki realized that they had all arrived at the table simultaneously: Mrs. Saotome, stepping out of the kitchen with a tray laden with bowls; father and Uncle Saotome (in panda form, of course) crossing over from their habitual shogi-playing position; and finally Ranma, turning the corner, wrapped in a towel and carrying his bath accessories.  
Tension levels rose considerably.  
Mrs. Saotome was the first to break the silence. With a small frown, she turned to Akane and asked, "Are you talking about your fiance, Akane dear?"  
The shift in her sister's demeanor was stunning. She was suddenly smiling -- though it fell far short of Akane's eyes and was so obviously false and forced to anyone with any degree of perception that Nabiki wondered how anyone could fail to see through it -- and she answered in a too-too cheerful voice, "Not at all, Aunt Saotome. I was talking about. . . about some jerk at the party last night.  
"Isn't that right. . . Ranko?" And the forced smile, forced cheerfulness in Akane's voice hit a chilling high as she turned to her nervous-looking fiance.  
"Ah -- ah," he stammered, eyes flicking back and forth across everyone in the room, seemingly unable to meet Akane's steady gaze.  
"Say, how are you feeling, anyway, Ranko?" asked Akane, and this time there was a slight, almost imperceptible tremor to her voice, gone by the time she finished. "You looked pretty sick last night."  
"Er, ah -- yeah. Fine. I feel. . . fine." He took a hesitant step forward. "I was, ah, just going to take a bath, Akane." He nervously crossed the room; Akane stepped back to give him space to pass by; he hesitated once again before doing so.  
And as he drew up beside Akane, she asked, "Oh, and I was wondering if you were done with my bikini yet, Ranko." The cheerfulness in her voice suddenly dropped like a rock, words left hard and cold. "Was it worth it. . . Ranko?"  
Ranma flinched back as if slapped, then dropped his gaze to the floor. Finally, after a long-seeming moment, he raised his eyes to Akane's, and matched her glare with a look -- a searching gaze, an enigmatic glance -- that defied Nabiki's attempt to decipher. Another moment, then he sighed and stepped away. Without another word or look back, he stepped into the bathroom.  
"Well, I see she's looking much better!" said Mrs. Saotome with honest brightness, serving out the bowls of soup. Father and Panda nodded sagely before tearing into their meal; Akane calmly sat at the table and began eating methodically. Nabiki shook her head. Something was _very_ wrong here, and obviously the adults were too blind to realize it. It seemed a few calls were in order. After lunch, of course.  
  
Ranma very calmly stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. He leaned back heavily. A deep sigh escaped his lips. Something akin to a shudder traversed his body, tremulous hollow wave starting deep within and traveling to his extremities. One weary hand passed across his squeezed-shut eyes; he took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. He held the position for what felt a long time.  
Was it worth it? He recalled Akane's question. Slowly, reluctantly, he opened his eyes, let the towel fall away, glanced at himself, at the clothes he was wearing. Had it been worth it?  
No.  
And yet, deeper within, beyond the frightening painful emptiness centered in the pit of his stomach, there was an insidious sense that, maybe, possibly, it _had_ been worth it. So Akane was mad, whispered a voice, so what, she's always mad. But now -- now he was popular, he had friends at school, things would be different at Furinkan, he wouldn't be. . . be alone, anymore. Besides, the fight between him and Akane was not _his_ fault, it was _hers_, that uncute. . . .  
"No," he hissed, voice escaping through clenched teeth. No. He shouldn't. . . he couldn't fall back on that, on old insults and easy excuses. This was serious. Passing by Akane, he had searched her face, her eyes, seeking the slightest glimmer of forgiveness. In vain. Only coldness and hard indifference had reflected his pleading, anxious look. And he realized that, up until then, he had still been hoping -- no, expecting! -- her to let him off the hook.  
But it was not going to happen.  
With sudden alacrity he pushed away from the door, reached behind and unhooked the bikini top; with a quick wiggle and kick he tore off the bottom. He scooped up both and dumped them in the bathroom anteroom's hamper. There. For what it was worth. . . the bathing suit was gone. A meaningless act, perhaps. . . but a start nonetheless. It left him feeling slightly better.  
Actually, he realized, he felt a _lot_ better. Akane's too-small top had been constricting his breasts for, what, over twelve hours now? It felt good to let his chest loose. But then he looked down at his ample bosom, the soft, full flesh that made him something other than what he truly was, and grew angry. It should not feel 'nice' to let his chest loose, he should never have had to bind it up in the first place! One fist convulsed in anger. Damn curse! Stupid, stupid, impossible curse! He glanced through the sliding door, into the bathroom and at the furo itself; light wisps of steam curled up from the ready and waiting bath. Good. Mother or not, he _would_ return to maleness, even if only for a few minutes. He was a man -- and he needed to feel like one again.  
Decision made, he stalked over to the bath, not even bothering to slide the door shut behind him. His towel lay in a crumpled heap in the middle of the anteroom. It was inconsiderate for him to climb into the bath like this, still dirty, unclean, without scrubbing; he did not care. He wanted his height, his weight, his manhood back. He lifted one leg up and over.  
"Oh, Ranko dear. . . ."  
With sudden uncanny speed and skill, he brought his leg down and pushed off the ceramic edge of the bath; he caught himself easily as he fell back, hand-springing off the slick floor, twisting in midair; before his mother could even complete her cursory knock, he landed on the little stool in the anteroom and flipped up his bucket of bathing products with one foot. The door opened and in stepped his mother.  
"Ranko. . . Ranko? You haven't even started bathing yet?" she asked, surprised.  
"Oh, ah. . . not yet, Auntie Saotome!" he answered, forcing a girlish giggle. "I guess I still felt a little tired, and. . . ."  
"Are you feeling okay, dear?" she asked, stepping into the room and softly closing the door behind her. "You look a bit flushed. Maybe I should not have forced you up so quickly."  
Ranma shook his head. "Oh, it's ok, Mrs. Saotome! I'll be fine!"  
"Are you sure?" After laying a bundle of clothing on the counter, she knelt down next to Ranma and brought one hand up to his forehead. "I can take my bath with you, if you like, wash your back for you. . . ."  
"No!" exclaimed Ranma, and then again, somewhat less excitedly, "No. I'll be fine, really." He stood up and smiled. "See, I feel. . . ." Then, realizing he was completely naked, he blushed furiously, snagged his towel from the floor, and wrapped it around his female body. "Ah. . . sorry 'bout that."  
His mother smiled, but cast a careful eye over her 'daughter'. "Are you sure you feel fine?" When he nodded, she relaxed and turned back to the door. "Well, okay then. Just remember that your soup is getting cold. Don't take too long, Ranko!"  
"I won't, Auntie!" he answered.  
"Oh, and I left some clothes for you, for after you clean up," she said as she closed the door behind her. One hand pointed vaguely toward the counter where she had deposited the bundle, then withdrew. The door clicked shut.  
Ranma watched after her for a moment, then sank back onto the stool with a relieved sigh. Close -- too close. He glanced over at the bath again and decided that, maybe, he _could_ accept being female for just a little longer. He released a dry chuckle. To think, he thought, that I actually believed I could have a little _privacy_ in my own bathroom! As if.  
Except, of course, it was not his bathroom, nor his house. It was the Tendos', and at any given time, they had every right to interrupt him, intrude on a private moment -- or throw him out. Had they not done so a number of times in the past? He was a guest here, he had very few possessions to call his own, and his residence was a perpetual debt hovering over his head. Of course, now, after what he had done last night . . . Ranma shivered. Shaking his head, he trudged over to the taps and filled a bucket with cold water. He then settled down on his stool and started to lather up. Goosebumps rose as the chilling washcloth passed across arms, stomach, chest.  
He continued to wash absently as his mind wandered. What was he going to do? Strangely enough, it seemed as if Akane had not yet told their fathers about what had happened last night. Hangover notwithstanding, Pop and Mr. Tendo would most certainly have been banging on his door the moment they found out that Akane had called off the engagement. In the brief time he had seen Nabiki before stepping into the bathroom, she had not seemed aware of what had gone on, either. So obviously Akane had only told part of the story -- the parts where he drank himself silly and had a good time. Was that a good thing? Did it mean that, with time, perhaps they could work this through?  
An involuntary gasp and sudden start snapped him out of his reverie, as he unconsciously passed the icy cloth a little close to his private regions. Sighing, he turned his attention back to his scrubbing. At the rate he was going, he would never be done. Although, added Ranma somewhat bleakly, why hurry? Things were only going to be worse out there.  
Ranma returned to his task. . . and his stomach, after a quick glance down, sank even further. "Ah. . . aw _shit_!" he groaned, and winced. There, on his inner thigh, was a speckling of brownish red. Blood. He looked closer: more staining, nearer his female genitals. It could only mean one thing: his period. And it looked heavier than normal, too. "Great, just. . . just great," he grumbled. It must have started during the night or something, he reasoned. He tried remembering the last time it had hit -- whether he had avoided it by remaining male -- tried counting the days -- lost track and gave up with a scowl. Whatever. He was a guy, dammit, and all that crap was a girl's problem! With unnecessary vigor that stung the flesh raw, he attacked the dried spots.  
Just what he needed. On top of everything else -- his hangover, his mom, Akane -- did he have to deal with this, too? Could this day get any worse?  
And as he doused himself with the rest of the bucket of water, and shivered violently under the sudden cold, he remembered the bundle of clothing his mother had carried in. Undoubtably feminine clothing -- with frills and pink and bows and stuff like that. Silly him. Of _course_ things can worse, he groused, standing up and reaching for his towel. Now all I need is for Ryoga to show up. . . .  
  
Spin and rise. Momentary flash in the sunlight as it reached its apex. Momentary hang, then downwards tumble. Unconscious swift movement and the bottlecap was snatched out of the air. Replaced in the nook formed between thumb and index finger, and snapped back up.  
Ryoga steadfastly walked through unfamiliar Nerimean backstreets, flipping a slightly crumpled cap every few steps. He was not in a good mood. He was not having a good day. But he nevertheless grinned evilly at the thought of making Ranma's day a whole lot worse.  
  
After quickly finishing off her soup in silence, Akane returned to her room. There, away from everyone, from her sisters, her dad, Ranma's parents -- away from _Ranma_, that insufferable, unforgivable, insulting _jerk_ -- she could release her anger. It was a slow, silent, controlled release; for several minutes after closing her door and sitting on the edge of her bed, all she could do was tremble, whole body taut, hot tears threatening to slip free, hands twisted in the folds of her sheets, fabric clutched violently. Finally, after an indefinite time, her breathing slowed, the shaking eased, muscles relaxed. She took in a deep breath; she released it; she blinked away the wetness in her eyes and stood up.  
She walked in a tight circle in the middle of her room. I need to get out of here, she realized. It doesn't matter where. I just have to leave. I can't stand to be in the same house as him. I hate him. I hate him I hate him I hate him!  
"It hurts, Akane. It hurts. . . ." Soft, almost whimpering remembered voice, slicing through the haze of anger gripping her mind. Her stomach twisted in a harsh, sickening knot. "S'not your fault," whispered the phantom voice. Akane's angry steps stopped; the earlier shaking returned. She glanced down at her trembling arms, and hugged herself. If you're so angry at him, she unwillingly asked herself, then why are you so worried?  
I'm not worried, she insisted.  
"Akane. . . ."  
Ranma can take care of himself.  
Nothing ever happens to Ranma that he can't handle.  
"It hurts. . . ."  
He doesn't deserve my concern.  
He's an insensitive, mean, cruel jerk!  
"Akane. . . ."  
"I have to get out of here!" she screamed, threatening tears of frustration suspended in her eyes. Without another word, she grabbed a light sweater and stormed out of the room. Her door slammed behind her, the duck sign banging woodenly in response. A moment later the front door to the Tendo Residence slammed as well.  
  
As Ranma walked along the edge of the canal, he found himself wishing that he could be anywhere else -- practicing in the dojo, killing time at Ucchan's, fighting with Mousse -- than with his mother; but the very recognition that he could think such things about her left him feeling guilty and vaguely ill, and so he drew closer to her.  
"Are you okay, Ranko?"  
"Yes, Auntie Saotome," he answered.  
It was a lie, of course, but she seemed to accept it. They continued walking, his mother gazing as if in silent contemplation out over the slowly moving water. The sun was starting to lay low on the horizon, having already begun its nocturnal decent; the first streamers of red and orange crept across the sky, and the mirror of their color rippled quietly below. A pleasantly warm mid-July wind tickled their skin. Ranma sighed softly.  
I oughta be happy to be able to spend some time with my mom, he thought morosely. He tugged at the high collar of the dress he was wearing, squirmed slightly in its constraining bodice. But he wasn't. Other concerns -- the party, the fight, Akane -- weighed heavily upon his mind, and the wonderful sight of the setting sun, which drew a pleased exclamation of delight from his mother, was entirely lost upon him. He appreciated his mother's offer of a late afternoon stroll; she was right, the fresh air _was_ doing him some good. But the inevitable nervousness that came with being around her, and the impossibility of forgetting the problems awaiting for him when he returned home -- to the Tendos' home, he amended -- made it impossible for him to glean any enjoyment out of the walk. Problems; Akane. His steps slowed. Images of Akane's face rose before him: glaring at him in contempt as he asked to borrow her bikini; the widening of the eyes, the profound shock and hurt and look of betrayal, as he applied pressure to her wrist; the violent, unthinking rage as she turned on him, struck him, ended the engagement; the cold, emotionless gaze as he passed her today on the way to the bathroom. And then -- as he first recalled truly seeing her: half-leaning over his shoulder, long tresses framing relaxed, happily-smiling face, extending an offer of friendship -- 'you want to be friends?' It was too much: the tension between where they had started, and where they now were, was great; an empty unpleasant sensation, a discordant echo of feelings admitted to and forgotten last night, arose and twisted his stomach. His steps faltered and he leaned against the railing, one hand viciously gripping the pitted metal. Eyes squeezed shut against imminent tears.  
"Ranko?" Tender arms reached for him, offered a comforting embrace.  
Ranma shook his head once. He took a deep breath. He blinked, and stepped away.  
Nodoka looked momentarily hurt. "Ranko. . . please dear, what is wrong?"  
Looking up at her, up at his mother, at her concerned look, sympathetic eyes, he realized that he needed to talk to someone about his problems; he realized that, maybe, the one person he _could_ talk to was standing next to him, offering support, and was more than willing to listen. He would have to be careful, of course, but the sudden possibility of an understanding ear overrode his worries.  
"I. . . ," he started, then faltered. He swallowed. "I need your advice, Auntie Saotome. I may have done something really stupid last night. At the party."  
His mother looked down at him for a moment, understanding dawning in her eyes. "Ah. This is about you and Akane, isn't it, Ranko?"  
Ranma blinked in surprise. "How did you know?"  
Nodoka smiled. "A mother notices these things -- even one who hasn't seen her son in ten years." Ranma smiled wanly as she continued. "But it was pretty obvious that Akane was angry today -- angry at my son, and angry at you. You girls normally get along so nicely! But not today." She hesitated momentarily. "Would you like to talk about it?"  
Ranma nodded. "But not here, Auntie Saotome," he said, and took her by the hand. "There's a park not too far away; we can sit down and talk. Would that be okay?"  
Nodoka agreed, and the two -- mother and son, hand in hand -- resumed their walk. But with each step Ranma found it more and more difficult to remain silent. Now that an outlet had been offered, he discovered a burgeoning need to use it arising within. He doubted his mother could give him any easy solutions, but just having someone listen to _his_ side of the story for once was an opportunity he could not ignore. So it was that, even before they arrived at the park and with very little preamble, Ranma found himself opening up concerning the party of the night before.  
"I guess it starts with, ah, me, joining Ranma and Akane on their way to the party." It felt weird, talking about himself in the third person, having to describe an event from a different and nonexistent viewpoint. "Ranma and Akane were fighting. Again." He sighed, glanced up at his mother. She was looking ahead, eyes attentive. She nodded for Ranma to continue.  
"Akane didn't want Ranma coming along to the party, hanging around her or something. I dunno why." He paused, then hesitantly continued after a moment's thought. "Maybe. . . maybe she wanted to be alone. With her friends. Or. . . or just wanted a night to herself, without me -- without Ranma -- around. I dunno." He shook his head and shrugged. "I don't. Anyway, when they got to the party, Akane went her way and Ranma went his."  
"And you?" interjected his mother.  
"Oh. I, er, I went with Ranma."  
"Did he seem . . . angry? Disappointed?"  
"Ranma seemed. . . ." He wavered. How had he felt? He didn't know -- he wasn't used to, didn't like talking about, his emotions. Ranma thought back to early last evening, walking towards Kiyoshi's house with Akane. When she had asked him to leave her alone at the party, to not hang around with her, he had felt . . . insulted. Insulted, and. . . nervous? But he had replied with insults of his own. By the time they had arrived at Kiyoshi's, they were no longer speaking, and their separation at that point had come as something of a relief.  
"Ranko?"  
"Oh, sorry Auntie. I. . . I guess Ranma seemed mostly angry." And yes, disappointed, he realized. He frowned. Why should he have cared whether that uncute tomboy wanted him around or not? Only he realized that her rejection _had_ hurt, and in the aftermath of that unexpected pain had been a lingering. . . fear. Eyes widening, he wondered at his own reaction.  
"Was that all?"  
He snapped back to the present. "I guess so. Ranma doesn't talk much about how he feels. He doesn't like to whine -- I think he considers it's unmanly."  
Nodoka nodded, a hint of a smile on her face.  
"So we wandered around the place a bit, until we bumped into some school buddies of his. We joined up with them, and then sat and hung around a campfire for a while. And talked, pretty much."  
"Really? About what?" asked his mother.  
"Oh, mostly about girls and all that -- you know, guy stuff."  
Nodoka raised an eyebrow. "Ranko! And you stayed and listened?"  
Ranma had the good sense to blush. "Well -- it's like I said, Mrs. Saotome, most of them think of me as 'one of the guys'. It wasn't a big deal or nothin', and I didn't mind. It was fun, kinda." The irony of it suddenly struck him: for while his words were true, he realized that a good part of the previous night's conversation had also concerned 'girl's stuff' -- that is, his problems and experiences with his cursed form. Somehow, he doubted his mother would like to hear that he had discussed his period with a bunch of boys.  
His mother's brow creased with a slight frown. "I see we will have to talk about this at another time, my dear. But I'm guessing it is here that you started to drink?"  
Ranma gave a careful nod. "Errr, yeah. Well, not quite yet -- I didn't start until later."  
"And did my son drink?"  
He actually considered this for several long moments before answering. Technically, he hadn't. Ranko had drunk -- had drunk quite a bit, in fact; but _Ranma_ had left the party via a splash of Ryuta's drink by then, and never actually touched a drop. Nor ever would, he vowed. But at this time he refused to deny that he had drank last night -- to do so would be too close to lying, and he did enough of that with his mother as it was. "Yeah. Yeah, he drank too." He briefly wondered why he felt reluctant to tell his mother that her son had consumed alcohol.  
She nodded, seeming unperturbed. "So what happened next?"  
"Well," continued Ranma, "this guy, this real asshole. . . ."  
"Ranko! Language!"  
"Sorry. This. . . jerk," he amended, "called Ryuta Uehara came over and started to bully some of Ranma's friends. Ranma didn't put up with it -- he hates bullies -- and, ah, convinced the guy to leave. But the guy didn't clue in: Ryuta came back, drunk and mean and tried to pick a fight with Ranma. Your. . . your son tried ignoring him at first, but then that. . . that _jerk_ started getting personal. He started insulting Ranma's manhood, called him weak and womanly and insinuated. . . other stuff."  
"Other stuff?"  
"He. . . ." How to put this, Ranma wondered. He treaded forward delicately, carefully choosing his words. "He, ah, insulted me as well -- insinuated that I had. . . you know. . . ."  
Nodoka looked down, frowning. "This boy. . . ."  
"He said that I'd kissed guys; said that I'd. . . had sex with. . . ." He flushed with remembered anger, one hand clenching at his side.  
"I see," said his mother, and an undercurrent of anger darkened her voice. "And then?"  
"And then. . . well, he pushed and pushed until Ranma simply couldn't take it anymore. But you see, Ranma didn't want to fight -- couldn't fight! He had promised Akane at the beginning of the party that he wouldn't ruin her night, wouldn't get into any fights or anything. But he couldn't ignore the insults to his masculinity! Stuck between his honor and his promise, he finally just. . . just snapped." Ranma took a deep breath. He realized that his voice was loud; he was trembling slightly. He looked up at his mother.  
"What did he do?" she asked in a soft voice.  
"He grabbed Ryuta and beat him up. Beat him up bad," he answered in a subdued tone.  
Nodoka stopped walking and turned to her protege. She gently laid her hands on the smaller girl's shoulders. "Do you think my son did the right thing?"  
And Ranma desperately wanted to answer 'yes', wanted to justify his own actions; but he knew he couldn't, he needed an honest, unbiased judgement, and so he refrained from giving the easy response. "I don't know, Auntie! He -- he promised that he wouldn't fight; but then, the things Ryuta said -- I don't see how he could _not_ have!"  
"The things this boy said were mean?"  
"Mean and cruel and. . . and untrue!" he answered fiercely.  
"They slandered my son's manliness?"  
He nodded emphatically.  
"And my son hurt this boy? He was brutal?"  
Ranma gave a slow nod.  
"Good," said Nodoka with an air of finality. Her eyes shone with a hard light. She resumed walking. "No one insults my son's manliness."  
  
Akane hugged herself and gazed unseeingly out over the darkly flowing waters of the canal. She stood oblivious, her thoughts as aimless and twisting as the last hour's confused wandering. But at least the urge to cry is gone, she thought. So was her anger. Her concern. She felt hollow, empty. A shiver passed through her, one unwarranted by the warm night air. After a time devoid of thought or meaning, her knees folded below her; she sank down, hands slipping along the smooth bars of the fence, then holding her up as she crouched, leaning back but hunched over, still looking sightlessly outwards. She noticed a muddy spattering in the dirt by her feet. Oh, look, she noted absently, I guess I was wrong. I'm crying. Strange, to shed tears and yet feel nothing.  
But no, not nothing, for as she became aware of her tears, she felt the pain well up within. No, she mouthed, no, not here, not now. Not yet.  
"Akane?"  
Hearing a voice call out her name startled her. She blinked, rubbed the back of one hand across her eyes. For a moment she felt surprised to be squatting by the river, unsure of the exact path that had led her here.  
"Akane?" repeated the voice, behind and closer.  
She stood, legs protesting from the sudden action, creaking and tingly. For how long had she held that unthinking position? No longer a focus, inner pain faded; a dull expansive greyness took its place. Akane turned away from the water.  
It was Sayuri approaching her, and as she neared and caught a good glimpse of Akane her expression changed from one of greeting to one of concern. "Akane -- Akane, are you alright?"  
The youngest Tendo tried forcing a smile to her lips. "Hi Sayuri! Of course I'm okay -- really! -- why wouldn't I be?" She blinked rapidly to clear her eyes.  
Sayuri stepped nearer. For several long moments she gazed at Akane searchingly, before frowning and shaking her head. "No way, Akane. Something's wrong."  
"No, really. . . !"  
"Sorry," interrupted her friend, grabbing her hand. "But I don't buy it." She proceeded to pull Akane away from the fence. "C'mon, follow me. I think we need to talk."  
"But. . . !"  
"No 'buts', Akane!" insisted the long-haired girl. "There's a great little kissaten near here. I'll buy you a coffee, and you can tell me all about it. It's about Ranma, right?"  
"Well. . . ."  
"I thought so," said Sayuri decisively, and led the way. Bemused, and grateful despite herself, Akane followed without another word. Maybe this is just what I need, she thought. Maybe I just need somebody to talk to.  
  
"One moment, dear," interjected Nodoka, interrupting Ranko's narrative. "Why did my son not want to go swimming with the rest of his friends? Did he say?"  
It took a few moments for the young girl to answer, and she seemed very hesitant in her choice of words. Something was nagging at the Saotome matriarch: there was a strangeness or oddity to the Tendo cousin's story that Nodoka couldn't quite put a finger on. Something in the way Ranko stammered before every response; something in the way the girl carefully contemplated every question before uttering a word. But why? Could she be protecting Ranma from something? Or was she simply embarrassed by retelling the previous night's activities?  
"Well," said Ranko, "I guess -- I. . . I'm not sure. I'd like to think it was because he was worried and wanted to check in on Akane. . . but. . . but in all honesty, I don't think that was it." She swallowed; Nodoka wondered if it was out of nervousness. "Part of it was simply because he didn't have any swimming trunks with him -- he hadn't planned on swimming. But it's more than that, I think." Again she paused, thinking, and stared off across the park. Nodoka wondered what she could see in the encroaching darkness. When Ranko continued her voice seemed distant. "I think. . . I think he was nervous. Maybe even scared. Not very manly, I realize," and she glanced up at the older woman, "but -- there it is."  
"Scared?"  
"Yeah, scared." Ranko gave a vague nod. "Because. . . ." Her voice trailed off, and her face twisted in frustration. "Because -- I don't know! I don't know. He just. . . he can't . . . he doesn't know how to . . . relate . . . say what he means to!" The pigtailed redhead took a deep breath. "He doesn't fit in. He doesn't have any friends. And throw him into a situation like that -- something social, something _fun_ -- and he's. . . scared. He doesn't know what to do." Almost as if expressing herself had proven exhausting, she slumped forward with head hanging low. "There."  
Nodoka looked down at the young girl with some surprise. That Ranma was having trouble fitting in was concern enough; that Ranko took it so seriously, so personally, was further matter of importance. Earlier suspicions consolidated in her mind, and an ephemeral inkling of what the relationship between Ranko and Ranma might be formed. "So what did you do?" she asked.  
Ranko started. "Err. . . me?"  
"Yes Ranko, you. Ranma decided to leave, and I think I can understand some of the reasons why he did so. But did you follow him? Did you stay at the party? Did you try and find Akane and tell her that her fiancee was leaving?"  
"I. . . followed Ranma back into the house."  
Of course, thought Nodoka. She would, despite -- judging by Ranko's own account of the party -- having a good time at the party. "And then?"  
"And then. . . ." Ranko gulped and seemed to shrink in upon herself. She lowered her eyes to the well-scuffed ground at her feet.  
"Then?"  
"Then. . . Ranma met Akane."  
  
"And then you met Ranma," confirmed Sayuri.  
Akane nodded. She took a sip of her coffee, and felt strangely ambivalent about continuing the conversation. She appreciated her friend's effort to cheer her up, to help her work through the current dilemma; yet, at the same time, there was a. . . resistance within, an urge to not dig too deep into submerged emotions. I need to talk about this, Akane realized, let my feelings out -- but what else might I find?  
"And then," prodded the girl siting opposite her.  
"What do you think? We fought. Like we always do." Akane scowled.  
"Not like you always do. . . definitely _not_ like you always do, Akane. I've seen you two fight before; I've _never_ seen you break off the engagement!" Sayuri leaned in a little closer, eyes fixated eagerly on the youngest Tendo. "I heard -- well, I heard lots of things, about what happened, about why it happened. Enough to get me worried. What happened, Akane? I'd like you to tell me. . . ."  
Akane stared at her friend, uncertain. She turned away, looked outside. It was dark, streetlights dropping small pools of paleness through which she glimpsed intermittent snapshots of passing life. There, two young girls, walking, laughing, probably friends; but as they entered the next circle of light one was frowning, lips pressed tightly together, as the other continued laughing, oblivious to her companion's anger. Then Akane's eyes shifted, and she was no longer looking through the glass, but at it, the dark, herself reflected. With a sigh she turned back to her schoolmate and, still feeling oddly detached from her own words, began explaining.  
"Well. . . after you and Yuka and Keiko and everyone else took off to join the guys at the pool, I went downstairs to grab my stuff, right?" Mouth dry, she took another drink. "Well, that's where I met Ranma. We bumped into each other. He was getting ready to leave. We talked a bit, and. . . well, he was being weird." "Weird? How?"  
Akane shrugged. "Nice, weird. Almost flirting, weird." Seeing Sayuri's raised eyebrow, she hastened to add, "He was drunk, of course. The stupid jerk." There was a momentary sadness within, the first emotion she recalled feeling in some time. Why did he have to be drunk, or under magical influence, or think he was a cat, to act half-way human around her? And why did it have to be such an infrequent occasion that she viewed any such extension of genuine kindness towards her from him with suspicion? "Anyway. So we grabbed our stuff. But we didn't leave. Just as I thought we were going to, Ranma stopped and asked me if he could borrow my bikini." She paused, slightly puzzled. Strange. Last night, the idea of that pervert borrowing her bathing suit had enraged her; now, aside from a slight residual embarrassment, she felt nothing.  
Sayuri nodded. "Yeah, that's right. I wanted to ask you about that. I saw her wearing it at the pool. That bitch was flaunting it off like it was hers or something." Scowling, she spat out a single word, "Pervert!" as if it fully summed up her feelings. It probably did.  
For a moment Akane felt an irrational irritation at her friend insulting her former fiance, but quickly reminded herself that Sayuri's assessment was true. He _was_ a pervert and, though she had never thought to apply it to him, did not the other word fit as well?  
"So then. . . why did you lend it to her?"  
Akane's countenance darkened. "I didn't lend it to him at all, Sayuri. He must have picked it up after we fought. After I left. After. . . ." Knuckles whitened on her mug. "I can't believe. . . I can't believe he actually went _swimming_ after we broke up!" Another emotion joined her repertoire for the evening: anger. "That. . . that insensitive jerk!" She fixated her glare on Sayuri. "Were you there? What did that baka do?"  
Smirking slightly, Sayuri leaned back into her seat. "Are you sure you want to know?" She gestured at Akane's claw-like grip of the coffee mug. "You're looking pretty tense as is. . . and I'm afraid this isn't going to make you any happier."  
For a moment -- briefly, an instant of doubt -- she hesitated: did she really want to know? Her anger with Ranma already felt complete; what would it avail her to despise him more? And yet. . . she had to know, _had_ to know, what had happened during the previous night.  
She gave a slight nod for Sayuri to continue, and listened attentively as her friend ran through the events of the party after Akane's departure. Sayuri certainly seemed to enjoy the telling, and left out no detail. The narrative was quite damning, and Akane found a whole sequence of emotions passing through her; or at the least, a single emotion building and intensifying within. Ranma, happily swimming; Ranma hanging around with the guys; Ranma, flirting with the girls; Ranma drinking and partying and playing and having a _great_ time, while _she_ wandered, crying, through Nerima. How could he? And she was _worried_ about him? That . . . that. . . .  
". . . Saw her one last time," Sayuri was saying, "as she headed back into the house to use the bathroom. You should have seen her -- she was seriously messed up. Drunk, big time. To hear her talk! She said. . . ." Sayuri hesitated for a moment. "Well, what she said isn't important. . . but she had trouble getting it out, and Hiroshi and I could barely understand her, her speech was so slurred. That's the last I saw of her that night. Drunker than I think I've ever seen anyone before. It's a wonder she hadn't already passed out!"  
The feverish pounding within drained with such speed and suddenness that she felt cold and empty in comparison. Well, she thought. Well. That certainly explains the state I found him in, doesn't it. The idiot got himself drunk -- got himself drunk _fast_.  
"Akane!"  
She slowly returned her attention to her friend, who was looking at her with some concern. It took a moment to understand why. Akane turned her attention to her hand, to the remnants of the mug still clutched in her grasp, the jagged ceramic edges cutting into her palm, the warm liquid spattered across her forearm and dripping onto the table. A moment of incomprehension, then she opened her hand. Broken fragments clattered to the floor. She blinked. "Oh. Oh my. I. . . I'm sorry."  
"Are you alright?" Sayuri rushed over to Akane's side of the table, grabbed her unresisting hand to check it for injury. Akane barely noticed. With her anger gone, but her mind reawakened from its earlier apathy or denial by the emotion's passage, a host of questions and concerns were suddenly assailing her. She needed to think.  
"You're lucky. You didn't get cut, or burnt." Sayuri's words tumbled out. "You -- are you even listening to me? Akane?"  
"I. . . I need a moment to think, Sayuri," she answered. She glanced down at her hand and absently shook some of the coffee off. "Something just occurred to me."  
Sayuri held her friend's gaze for several long moments, before nodding. "I'll. . . I'll get a cloth, tell the waitress what happened, and, uh, go to the washroom, okay? I'll be back soon, and then maybe you can. . . ah, finish telling me what happened?" She got no response. Frowning slightly, she walked off. Akane hardly took note of her departure.  
  
On a bench in a park sat two women, illuminated palely by the light behind them. They sat in silence. To a passing observer, the similarity of look and dress between the two made them appear as mother and daughter: and if so, the younger redhead had done something to terribly anger her older companion, for the taller woman was staring sternly into the darkness, mouth set in a thin, hard line, while the girl kept her eyes locked despondently on the ground, one foot digging nervously at the dirt.  
The mother was the first to speak. She did so without turning her head, and her daughter started at the sudden vocalization. "So Akane left the party, alone." It was not a question.  
The younger girl nodded numbly.  
"And my son did not follow her."  
The daughter shook her head without looking up.  
"Nor did you."  
Again a slow nod.  
"Instead you both chose to remain at the party and enjoy yourselves."  
For a moment the younger girl seemed to hesitate, perhaps considering a protest, but then mouthed a barely audible, "yes."  
"I see. Furthermore, as a result of the quarrel between my son and your cousin, my future daughter-in-law, the engagement between the two -- an engagement decided upon by both their parents sixteen years previously -- has been terminated."  
"Ye -- yes."  
"And, in the aftermath of this disaster, instead of remaining to face his dilemma head on like a man, my son has chosen to run off?" This time it was a question, and the older woman turned her eyes, stern and seemingly flashing with barely suppressed fury, upon the young girl. The pigtailed redhead met her gaze for a brief moment before flinching away, crimson- faced.  
"He -- he left, yes, but, but. . . ."  
"But what?" interrupted the older woman, and for a moment her restrained anger was clear, her voice lashing out at the cringing girl. "Eh, Ranko? What? What could excuse my son's dishonorable actions?" With sudden vigor she leapt to her feet, began stalking back and forth before the park bench. "That he drank, I can accept. Men drink, often to excess. That he ignored Akane all night, and chose to remain with his male friends, I, too, can understand. Genma has oft done the same to me, and I see nothing unusual in Ranma doing likewise. That Ranma got into a fight with a bully, that my son broke his promise to Akane, I not only accept, but approve of -- the slur against both his manliness and your honor took precedence over his oath to his fiancee. And that my son argued with Akane, and fought with her -- well, though I am certainly disappointed, I have come to understand that the two do not always get along, and I suppose that a certain tension between the two is not entirely surprising.  
"But that my son actually hurt Akane . . . that he willingly chose to inflict physical pain upon her to end an argument, I find both cowardly and weak and unforgivable, and by doing so he makes me question the entirety of the last ten years of his training and the quality of the values instilled in him by my husband. What of all those training voyages? Were they wasted? Did my son grow up to be a true martial artist, or a mere bully no better than the one who slurred his manliness hours previously?"  
"No," yelled the young girl, leaping to her feet. "No!" For a moment she wavered there, trembling slightly, seemingly surprised by her own temerity. But before the older woman could recover, she forged ahead. "It wasn't like that, mo -- Auntie Saotome! I. . . he, he didn't want to hurt Akane, he never meant to, he felt, no, he feels terrible that he did so, he'd never, couldn't, do something like that again! Ranma Saotome doesn't hit girls!" Her voice sank to a whisper. "Ranma Saotome never hits girls."  
"Well my son," the elder Saotome ground out, "certainly seemed to have forgotten that last night."  
"It was -- it was the alcohol, and the fight, and, and. . . ."  
"And that makes it okay?"  
Ranko hung her head. "No."  
"And now, when the opportunity exists for him to offer some kind of explanation, to make amends -- where is he?"  
"He's. . . ." Ranko swallowed nervously, looked away as if unable to meet the older woman's eyes. "He's gone on another training trip. After the party, after the alcohol started to wear off, and he realized what he had done, he felt. . . terrible. Guilty. Unmanly and dishonorable. He felt the only thing he could do was to leave, to train, that maybe through his martial arts he could redeem himself. He left very, very early this morning."  
The Saotome matriarch looked at the younger girl for several long moments, and then, suddenly, seemed to fall in on herself. The anger drained away, the fire in her eyes dimmed, as her shoulder drooped and she sank down onto the park bench. "Oh, my son -- my son," she whispered. "What has happened to you?"  
After a brief hesitation, Ranko sat next to her. "Auntie?" she asked timorously.  
"Is my son's life truly that bad? Is he really that unhappy?"  
Ranko blinked. "Huh?"  
"By your own account, he seems a terribly unhappy young man: lonely, socially insecure, desperate for friendship. . . who does he turn to in his moments of weakness? Even a man among men must tire at times."  
Ranko tried swallowing in a mouth suddenly gone dry. "I. . . ."  
"You seem to know my son well, Ranko. Do you talk to him much? Is he really that unhappy?"  
"I . . . I don't. . . ."  
"Does he . . . does he miss his mother?"  
The girl gave one single quick glance up at the older woman and nodded numbly.  
"I see." And then, "Ranko. . . Ranko, are you crying?"  
The young redhead shook her head violently. "No! No, of course not. It'd be silly for me to cry, right?"  
"Ranko, it's never silly for a young girl to cry." She placed a comforting hand on her protege's shoulder. "Right?"  
The girl's mouth twisted bitterly. "Yeah. Of course. For a girl."  
Silence descended once again as both leaned back into the bench, seemingly lost in their respective thoughts. Again, it was the older woman who first broke the quiet. "Ranko. . . do you love my son?"  
Ranko started upright. "What?"  
Mrs. Saotome faced her with the utmost seriousness. "You heard me, dear. Do you love my son? Are you attracted to him?"  
"I. . . No! Of course not." Ranko's red-faced blush was obvious even in the relative darkness. "What'd make you ask somethin' like that?"  
The corner of the elder Saotome's mouth twitched slightly. "Come now, Ranko, it would certainly explain a lot: the way you seem to know him so well, the way you followed him around all night at the party, the way you seem so anxious to defend him. You understand him, I think, you obviously respect him, and it seems you care greatly for him."  
"Well, er, yeah, sure, Ranma's a great guy and all, but. . . but, there's Akane, right? She's his fiancee!"  
"And wouldn't that simply explain the obvious tension between you and your cousin? I'm sure that, despite Akane's protests to the contrary, she feels strongly for my son; and if she discovered that you harbored those very same feelings, would she not likely become jealous?"  
Ranko smirked. "Akane, jealous? Yeah, I think I could see that happening."  
The older woman nodded. "Especially if, as I suspect, he confides in you more than in her. Is it to you that he turns in his times of weakness? Does he reveal his fears and doubts to you? He could never do so to his fiancee, I'm sure -- but to you, a friend, a confidant, might he not let his guard down, even if only briefly? Are you his friend, Ranko? His relief and comfort?"  
"I never thought of it that way." She sounded puzzled. She looked herself over, as if in wonder. "Maybe you're right. I -- he, he does, ah, admit stuff to me, that he doesn't tell anyone else."  
"You see? And the step from friendship to. . . something else, is not as great as some think. Especially when the boy is one as manly and handsome as, by all accounts, my son is." A mother's pride had sneaked into her voice, overwhelming much of her earlier anger.  
Again Ranko blushed. "Well, Ranma is quite the. . . ." She gave her head a shake. "But, no, I swear, Auntie, there's nothing between us. I'd never get between Ranma and Akane." Her countenance darkened. "If there was ever anything there." She sighed. "And if there was, it's gone for sure, now."  
"Now, now, dear," reassured the older woman, standing up and patting her companion's shoulder. "As bad as things are, there is always hope. Now that I have a better idea of what happened, I think I will have a talk with your cousin. She is probably quite upset, and understandably so, but I doubt things are beyond recovery."  
"You. . . you think so?" asked Ranko softly, standing as well.  
"Of course." Mrs. Saotome took a moment to look around. Aside for a few other individuals taking late-night strolls, the park was still and quiet. "But it is getting quite late. You have school tomorrow, dear, so I believe it is time to be heading back."  
Ranko fell in beside the taller woman as they headed off.  
"My son, of course, still needs a serious talking to."  
"Err, yeah."  
"And I am far from done with you, my dear."  
"Ah, me?"  
"There is still the matter of your infatuation with my son."  
"But. . . !"  
"And your unpardonable behavior at the party."  
A guilty silence.  
"And the way you treated your cousin. Remember, Ranko, nothing is more important than family. Not even a boy as manly as my son. Next time your cousin needs help, you should be there."  
"Of . . . of course."  
"And there's still the matter of your clothes. . . ."  
"Mrs. Saotome?"  
"You still dress like a tomboy. We'll make a lady of you yet."  
"Auntie!"  
  
As Ranma and his mother approached the Tendo residence, now bantering back and forth on a far more amicable level, a gradual weight seemed to grow upon him. Each step seemed increasingly wearisome and laborious. The time spent with his mother had helped, had provided a certain hope; but now he had returned to the source of his problems. Did Mr. Tendo know that the engagement had been canceled yet -- did he know that his son-in-law had hurt his precious daughter? And, of course, Akane was in there.  
But, as they approached the front gate of the household, he spotted a single figure approaching from the opposite direction. His steps faltered and his legs seized up as he identified the individual. Akane. He realized he was breathing heavily.  
"It's okay, dear," said his mother softly. "Relax."  
He noticed that his fiancee -- his ex-fiancee, he reminded himself -- didn't hesitate in her approach: in fact, he could almost feel her gaze sweep coldly over and past him with complete indifference. He shivered.  
They reached the front gate simultaneously: him and his mother, and Akane. A very uncomfortable silence settled between the three. Ranma tried to meet Akane's eyes but found himself unable to: his gaze kept slipping away and finding some fascinating detail in the road, an errant pebble, the stonework of the wall.  
"Good evening, Akane," said the Saotome matriarch.  
"Good evening, Mrs. Saotome," answered the youngest Tendo.  
"Did you enjoy your walk?"  
"Yes."  
"Good."  
Ranma felt his mother nudge him. He took a hesitant step forward. "Um, er, hi, Akane."  
"Ranko."  
"How are you, ah . . . ."  
"Fine."  
"Did you . . . ."  
"It's getting late, Ranko," interrupted Akane. "We have school tomorrow. Don't you think we should be heading in?"  
Ranma slumped his head in defeat. "Yes."  
"Oh, come now, girls," said his mother. "It is not that late, and it is a beautiful night. You should enjoy it!" He glanced up at his mother, amazed that she seemed oblivious to the chill Akane was radiating. "Why don't you two stay out here a little longer, talk, enjoy the fresh air? I'll go in and make you some hot cocoa."  
"Mrs. Saotome," attempted Akane.  
"Now, now, dear, don't worry. It would be my pleasure. You two have not seen each other all day, so why not take the time to catch up? I'm sure you both have lots to talk about." The older woman turned away, smiling brightly, and slipped through the household gate. It closed with a firm thud behind her.  
Silence. They both stared at the large wooden door before them.  
Ranma had no idea what to say, and so silence reigned between them. He thought he could feel Akane's baleful glare burning into him, but kept his eyes locked steadfastly on the doors. Willing them to open didn't seem to be working, but he kept on trying. What else could he do? I just know, he thought, that anything I say to her is just going to make things worse. Of course, he added a moment later, not saying anything probably isn't helping either.  
Just as the silence was becoming unbearable, Akane spoke: "Sometimes that woman can be infuriating." The tone of her voice was far from being friendly or conversational.  
"Watch it," said Ranma, turning to face her and speaking with surprising vehemence, "that's my mother you're talking about."  
"Ah. So you can talk, after all."  
He flushed. "Yeah. Yeah, I can talk."  
"But you don't have anything to say, do you?"  
"I. . . ." He hesitated, then straightened his posture. He bowed before her, deeply, from the waist. He held the position for a moment before rising. "I'm sorry, Akane. I really am."  
"Oh, well, great. I guess that makes everything alright, then, huh?"  
"No! No, but. . . ."  
"But what, Ranma?"  
"I. . . ." But what could he say. The apology had come easily, the stubbornness that so often intruded gone. He really was sorry -- but what difference did it make? Nothing he could say, or probably do, would convince her it was honest; and even if she accepted his apology as genuine, did that change the reality that he had betrayed her last night? "Nothing."  
"Exactly."  
He turned away, felt her chilling gaze continue to bore into his back. Damn, but this was stupid. He should just step away, return to his room. Talking with Akane tonight wasn't going to accomplish anything.  
"So. . . how'd you feel this morning? Now? Strange?"  
He was surprised by the question: sensing something other than cold indifference in her voice was almost as unexpected as the question itself. "Fine. . . better, I guess. A little tired. The queasiness is gone. The fresh air helped."  
"So how much did you drink last night?"  
Ranma wasn't sure where she was going with these questions. He shrugged. "I dunno. I don't really remember. A lot. Too much." Way too much.  
"What did your mom think?"  
"About the party? I told her what happened. She's extremely displeased with her son. She wants to have some stern words with him."  
"Ah. But he's not around, is he?"  
He looked away as he answered. "No. No, he's left on another training trip."  
"Ah, I see. It must've been hard packing with a hangover."  
"Akane. . . ."  
"And what about 'Ranko'? Where does she come into all of this?"  
"She, ah, I. . . I followed Ranma around for most of the night."  
"Convenient."  
"Er, yeah. She also thinks I'm in love with my guy-side. And, ah, that you're jealous of Ranko and I. . . er, Ranma and I. . . of the two of us, and that that's why we're not getting along." He gave a short forced laugh; it sounded sickly and unnatural.  
Akane answered with a silence that was just long and deep enough to signal her disapproval of his attempt at humor. "And what did she think of your drinking?"  
"She wasn't happy. She said it was dangerous, and unladylike behavior."  
Akane snorted. "No kidding. What was it that Sayuri called you? Bitch? Slut?"  
His face darkened. "Akane. . . ."  
"She told me a lot of things tonight. You had a really good time after I left, didn't you?"  
"Akane, no-." A memory surfaced: bumping into Sayuri in the swimming pool, an exchange of words. "Listen, Sayuri and I don't get along; I don't think she likes me."  
"Ah. So now you're calling my friend a liar?"  
"No!" Why do I bother, he thought. I should just shut up.  
"So you did have a good time after I left. Enjoy swimming with the guys? Hey, get any compliments on my bikini?"  
"Akane, no, listen. . . ."  
"I'm glad you had a good time. See, I was wandering the streets, crying. After all, my fiancee had just hurt me, called me a bitch in front of all my friends. . . my engagement was over, and. . . ."  
"Dammit, Akane, whaddya want me to say!" yelled Ranma. "Eh? I'm sorry? I'll say it as often as I have to: I. Am. Sorry!" He advanced on her, punctuating his words with wild gesticulations of the arms. "What do I have to do? Bow? Get down on my knees? Huh?" He stood mere feet from her, his words echoing through the street. "What. Do. You. Want?"  
Her level gaze cut straight through his desperate frustration. "What are you going to do, Ranma? Hit me?"  
He flinched as if physically slapped. "Akane. . . ."  
No answer.  
"Can't. . . can't we ever be friends again?"  
It was an eerie echo of the night before; he could almost hear her whispered plea: 'Aren't I your friend too,' and recalled his response: a silent, steady stare.  
A long, deliberate pause. And then, "What makes you think we ever were?"  
He turned away, emotionless, hollow. He knew he could expect no better, yet nevertheless felt stunned by her indifferent response. There was nothing for him here: no hope, no chance of redemption. He might as well make the lie to his mother a reality: grab his father and leave on another training voyage -- a permanent one. As he trudged away with steps that felt surprisingly heavy towards the house, he realized that there would never now be a joining of the Saotome and Tendo family lines.  
  
Even before the gate doors had closed behind Ranma, Akane felt her self-control slip and the tears escape.  
"Ranma," she whispered, but of course it was too late, he was gone. Not that she wanted to forgive him -- she was still far too angry with him for that. His words and actions of the previous night had stung her deeply; how deeply, she was just beginning to realize. But she had never intended to lash out at him the way she just had. . . not so callously, viciously.  
And yet. . . had she not taken a certain pleasure in seeing her barbs strike home, twist deep? To see him blanch, to watch the life seep from his face. Perhaps, now, he had an idea of how she had felt. . . still felt, when she let her guard down.  
But then why, now, did she feel so terrible?  
"Akane, are you coming in? Did you and Ranko. . . oh, my, Akane dear, are you alright?" She heard Nodoka approach her, but twisted out of her imminent embrace, hiding her tears. "Akane?"  
"I'm fine, Mrs. Saotome. Really."  
"Akane. Please. I'm only trying to help."  
"I. . . I know. I just don't feel like talking about it yet."  
"If it is about you and Ranko. . . ."  
The Tendo daughter gave a bitter laugh. "Believe me, it has nothing to do with me and my 'cousin'."  
"And Ranma?"  
Akane spun on the Saotome elder. "And it's not about your stupid son, either!" she screamed. "Why does everything always have to revolve around Ranma! Always Ranma! This isn't about him -- it's about me!" She took a deep breath, forced her voice down to a more neutral level. Yelling at Ranma's mother wouldn't solve anything.  
"Akane, I don't understand."  
"And neither do I, really. I've been thinking about it all night -- but there's so many things swirling through my head, all these thoughts and feeling and things I just don't want to deal with. . . things I can't deal with, not right now. It's too much, too soon. I'm too tired." She gave a pleading look at Nodoka. "Please. I understand you want to help me. Really. But not tonight. Help Ranko, if anyone. I said some mean things to her, things I didn't entirely want to say. I'm okay, really. I'm just. . . tired." Sick and tired. Of everything. Of the way things are.  
Mrs. Saotome looked uncertain, but eventually turned away. "If you're positive, Akane dear. Everyone's already retired to their rooms for the night -- but if you need anyone to talk to. . . please, come to me."  
"I will, Auntie."  
"Good."  
"And Auntie. . . ."  
"Yes?"  
"Please. . . please don't tell my father what's happened. Not yet." She wasn't too sure why she didn't want her father to know, but she did know that, if he was to find out, she wanted it to come from her.  
Nodoka frowned, but nodded. "I had not decided whether to tell Soun yet or not. The poor man might not take it very well. I'll wait. . . for now, though I don't appreciate the position you and Ranko are placing me in. Maybe I won't have to -- maybe things will get better."  
Not likely. "Thank you."  
"Goodnight."  
Nodoka slipped back through the gate. Akane took a few more moments to stare up at the night sky. It was cloudy and the stars were obscured overhead. "Oh Ranma," she whispered, "what's going on?" There was no answer, nor had she expected one. Shaking her head, she followed after Mrs. Saotome.  
The door to the household closed behind her with a resounding thud.  
  
He lay there in the dark, hovering suspended between dream and wakefulness, the breathing of his mother an ephemeral sighing on the edge of consciousness. Sharing a room with her always made Ranma anxious as he drifted towards sleep: what if he awoke a man, still softly encased in the nightgown she had insisted he wear? Why did the lack of his father's deep rumbling snores -- whether a panda or human in sleep -- make his sleep that much more uneasy? Or was it the constant fleeting recollection of the day's and the previous night's events that unsettled his rest so?  
Normally Ranma welcomed sleep -- actively yearned for it, in fact. There had been periods of time in his life when he had seen precious little of it. . . little enough so that, when sleep was available, he took full advantage of the opportunity. Like a good meal, you never know when you might have to go without. It was his earnest opinion that one ought to stock up on a good thing whenever possible: it might not be around for long. The main attraction of sleep, however, was that it normally offered an escape from the chaos and headaches of life: in sleep, calming silence and soothing velvet enveloped him and kept jealous fiancees and wrathful rivals at a safe, non-threatening distance. Sleep was peace for Ranma Saotome, and no matter how brief, peace was always gleefully embraced. He saw precious little of it.  
Tonight, however, suspended semi-conscious and semi-aware, proper sleep eluded him as his mind roiled and dredged up seemingly unfamiliar memories:  
Pale girl with dark hair, deep and painful sobbing, words of importance spoken but now flitting dimly just beyond recollection.  
Darkness. Lurching vertiginous momentum. A solitary click; a face made unfamiliar by shadow and alien expression. And. . . .  
Ranma started; his body jerked, spasmodic unconscious firing of nerves jarring him awake. Dream-state remembrances flared once in his mind before fading. A moment later he fell back onto his futon with a sigh, wondering what had awakened him. What a day, he faintly thought, as he shifted to one side and tried to relax suddenly taut muscles. Akane hates me, my mother is disappointed with me, I've betrayed those who took me in. I hope that tomorrow. . . tomorrow; in mid, semi-coherent thought, he faded into a sleep that was both deep and devoid of troublesome doubts and worrisome dreams.  
  
*** *** *** *** *** ***  
  
As Ranma Saotome walked to school on Monday morning, enough things had already gone awry since waking up for him to know that, even by his standards, this was likely to be a very bad day. He scowled at the sun shining brightly overhead and wished for the day, if not the week, to end quickly and painlessly. He snorted. When did an entire week ever pass by without varying degrees of pain being inflicted upon his person? Whether from his father, or a rival, or Akane. . . .  
No, not Akane, not any longer, he thought, and sighed. Bitterness sank into depression as he continued his path along the canal. Breakfast had proven chilling: everything appeared relatively normal -- Mr. Tendo with newspaper, Pop as a panda eating scraps, Kasumi and Mom in the kitchen, Akane sitting next to him at the table -- but his ex-fiancee had made it abundantly clear that she wanted nothing to do with him:  
"So, ummm, Akane, how did you do on that, ah, History question," he had asked. The question was lame, but it was the first thing that came to mind. "You know, the one about. . . ."  
She had turned and leveled a withering glare at him. "I didn't do it. I had too many other things on my mind, for some reason," she had answered. "Although I'm glad you obviously weren't distracted by anything." She had then turned back to methodically eating her meal. So he had returned to his own food, and a few moments later, breakfast not done, Akane had stood up and left for school, early and on her own.  
Nabiki, too, had left early, which meant that he was walking alone as well. It was probably better that he was, considering the mood he had been in by the time he left the Tendo residence. He didn't much feel like talking to anyone, anyway. He'd been talking plenty in the last few days, thank-you-very-much. What I need right now, he decided, is a good fight. Burn off some of this frustration. Where's the good 'ole Puzzled Porker when ya need him?  
He noted the old woman washing the sidewalk as he made his way along the road. How many times had she splashed him on the way to school? Didn't really matter this morning, though. He was already female, and dressed in a Furinkan girl's school uniform to boot. I love my mother and all, he told himself, but dammit!, could she ever be insistent:  
"You don't think you're going to school dressed like that, do you, young lady?"  
Ranma, who had been in the middle of dressing -- black pants and scarlet shirt, per usual -- had stopped with a sinking feeling in his stomach. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"  
His mother's frown had been quite intimidating. "That is not a proper school uniform, Ranko."  
"Yeah, but the principal don't really care!"  
"And it's terribly unfeminine!"  
"Auntie, please, don't start. . . ."  
"Of course, it's probably just another indication of your infatuation with my son. But really, Ranko, wearing his clothes? Comes from a lack of proper female guidance, I'm sure. Well, while I'm here, I'll see to it that you. . . ."  
Ranma had simply sighed, tuned her out, and started changing.  
Fortunately, he had been able to catch Nabiki just before she left, and convince her to bring a spare set of clothes to school for him. For a price, of course, but at least he would be able to change back to a guy once out of the house. The mere thought helped to alleviate his low spirits: after being female for so long, he was itching to return to his real gender. . . and get out of these stupid clothes. Hopefully he would be able to track Nabiki down quickly and change before too many people saw him: he had been seen at school in woman's clothing before (in both female and male form, much to his embarrassment), but it still wasn't something he particularly enjoyed. At least he had been able to get out of wearing female undergarments -- his mother had been satisfied with just the uniform.  
Approaching the front gates of the school, he saw with satisfaction that he still had plenty of time before first bell. Loads of time to get to class, providing. . . .  
"Lo! My beauty in pigtails approaches! And adorned in such proper, beauteous raiment!"  
Ranma sighed. He really had to get out of these stupid clothes.  
  
"Thank you, Anami," said Nabiki, dismissing her informant. That was the third recounting of what had happened at Kiyoshi's party (each slightly different, but consistent enough on the important details to be reliable), and with each version her anger grew and her patience with Saotome dwindled. Oh, but would he pay, she decided, for treating my sister that way. Would he ever pay.  
She looked down at the bundle of clothing Ranma had given her this morning, and smiled grimly. If he enjoyed being female at the party so much, why deny him the pleasure of staying that way a little longer? Settling back comfortably into her desk, contemplating appropriate tortures, Nabiki pulled out a pair of scissors and began to enjoy herself immensely.  
  
"Kuno, get offa me! We're gonna be late for class!"  
A solid boot to the head provided the incentive Kuno needed to let Ranma go. The kendoist recovered quickly, though, and fell in next to his red-haired love as they crossed the distance from the front gate to the school. Ranma soon noticed that, instead of harassing him as usual, the taller man kept a watchful eye, imperiously casting his gaze about the schoolyard. His bokken was held low but ready. After a few steps with him hovering about, Ranma's patience dwindled.  
"Kuno, what the hell are you doing?"  
"Guarding your virtue."  
"Ah." A moment later, "Why?"  
"The vile cretins who populate this school have been spreading lascivious lies about you, my dear. I have already punished a number of them on your behalf. Let them attempt another slander! They shall taste my. . . ."  
Ranma halted and pulled the ranting kendoist back. "They've been _what_?"  
"Making lewd suggestions against your honor."  
"Insulting me?"  
"Far worse, pigtailed one, far worse: some have even insinuated you may be a woman of loose morals! But I believe not a word. . . ."  
He yanked Kuno down to his eye level, fingers fiercely curling into the taller man's collar. "They've been calling me a _slut_?" he hissed.  
Surprised, but undaunted, Kuno nodded.  
"Who?"  
"I cannot be expected to remember the names of all the scum that slink about the schoolyard, pigtailed one. But fear not, I reprimanded them properly."  
For a moment Ranma felt woozy, sick. It wasn't supposed to be like this: he was supposed to be popular, they were his friends now, he'd partied and had a good time with them and opened up to them! They were his friends, dammit, they had to be, otherwise -- otherwise, he had lost Akane for nothing. And he wasn't sure he could deal with that, not now. "What else," he asked, and was surprised at how soft his own voice sounded.  
"Pigtai. . . ."  
"Did they say, Kuno?"  
"Ah. Some said you were a drunkard, drinking wildly without restraint." Ranma winced. "Others suggested you were violent, a 'bully' -- obviously, they do not appreciate your vibrant personality as I do. One girl unfairly called you flirtatious and wanton, exposing your. . . your assets and bounteous beauty for all and sundry to see! But I believe not a word of it, not one!"  
Ranma absently noticed the slight trail of drool escaping from the corner of Kuno's mouth. Were they saying such things about him? But why? I didn't 'expose' anything last night, he told himself, I didn't flirt with nobody. Except for Hiroshi, right? He remembered and suddenly felt ashamed. But that was in fun, I wasn't being serious, I was joking and a bit drunk, and beside, no one knows or saw. Except for Hiroshi. But he wouldn't tell. He promised.  
"And then one evil cur said. . . he said that. . . no, it is beyond telling!"  
He tuned back in to the flustered kendoist standing next to him. "What?"  
"This man, he said -- it is a lie, of course, it must be! -- he said that you were found. . . ."  
"Found?"  
"Naked! Your beauty unveiled! Your skin exposed, curves sultry in the dark, your breasts. . . ." Seeing the frenzied look to Kuni's eyes, the froth at the lip, Ranma took a hesitant step back. "Say it isn't so, pigtailed girl! Have your virgin treasures been despoiled by heathen eyes? Say it isn't. . . ."  
Anticipating the lunge, the shorter girl was ready when he leapt forward to embrace her. A swift, solid elbow -- perhaps a tad more vicious than was strictly necessary -- to the side of Kuno's head put him down for the count. He collapsed, eyes open and swirling.  
"You don't have to sound so friggin' jealous, you pervert," muttered Ranma, and resumed his walk toward the school. Aw, sheesh, he decided, I was worried about nothing. I shoulda known better than to trust anything Kuno says. He always exaggerates everything.  
  
Despite the troubles with Tatewaki, Ranma nevertheless managed to arrive a few minutes ahead of the final bell. He felt a moment's trepidation before stepping into class: acutely aware of the blue skirt fluttering loosely about his bare legs, knowing Akane was in there, still haunted with vague concerns over Kuno's warning, Ranma had little desire to begin school today. But he could delay for only so long. Taking a steadying breath, he opened the door.  
Did conversations halt momentarily upon his arrival, only to resume in quieter tones? It certainly seemed that everyone cast surreptitious glances his way as he moved toward his desk. He gave a quick look for Akane; seeing her, he considered going to her; but a subtle shifting of her posture, a slight turning of her back his way was enough to convince him otherwise. Instead, he sought out Hiroshi and Daisuke. He decided to join the group of guys they were clustered with over by the window.  
"Hey, Red, what's happening?" called one guy, Tanaka. A subdued snicker passed through the class.  
It took a moment for Ranma to realize that he was being addressed. "Me?" Receiving a nod, he shrugged. "Fine, I guess." What's up with the name, he wondered. Red? Because of my girl-body's hair? But they've never called me that before. . . . When he joined up with Hiroshi's gang, he was greeted with a chorus of "Hiya Red" and laughter. Noticing the uncomprehending blank response, someone added, "It's a nickname, man. Relax!" A nickname? I've never had a nickname before, thought Ranma, well, except for Ranchan, but that's not the same thing. He wasn't sure whether he was pleased or not -- but it certainly seemed to confirm his belief that Kuno's dire predictions were full of their usual exaggeration. Taking a deep breath, he tried to let some of the nervousness he felt bleed away.  
Then the door opened, and a bundle of yellow-clad energy vibrated itself into the room: Ms. Hinako. "We have a lot to cover today," she said, "so get to your seats, quickly!" Everyone rapidly started to migrate back to their seats in preparation for the beginning of the school day. Before taking a step, Ranma felt a tug on the sleeve of his blouse.  
"Ranma, is everything okay?" It was Daisuke, sounding genuinely concerned.  
He shrugged. "Yeah, I guess so. Why?"  
Hiroshi gestured vaguely towards the girl. "Well -- you know. You're a girl."  
"No shit. Been this way all weekend."  
"What," exclaimed Daisuke, with Hiroshi supplying the "Why?"  
"It's 'cus--," he started, and then, sensing Ms. Hinako's ire focusing on him and his friends, decided that the _last_ thing he needed today was another struggle with the overly-eager chi-draining disciplinarian. "I'll tell ya later, 'kay?"  
He dashed over to his desk before Hinako had a chance to say anything. He even remembered to smooth down the back of his skirt as he sat down, and then felt a singular embarrassment realizing that he had done so without conscious effort. I love my mom, he thought, and sighed, but she's gotta go. If I hafta stay in this girl body much longer, I'm gonna crack. His only consolation was that, contrary to Kuno's threats, everything seemed relatively normal.  
  
It was breaktime between classes, and before Ranma could step away to find Nabiki and retrieve his clothes, Hiroshi pulled him aside to explain something.  
"I don't understand. . . ."  
Hiroshi looked caught between fear and concern. "I don't know who started it, but -- well, didn't you wonder what they were getting at this morning?"  
Ranma shrugged. "I just figured it had something to do with my hair." He fingered his pigtail. "I mean, there aren't that many redheads at Furinkan, so. . . ."  
The blond-haired boy shook his head. "No, Ranma; well, not quite."  
"Whaddya mean? It's just a nickname, right? I thought it was kinda, I dunno, cool."  
"Trust me, it's not. The guys are being assholes."  
"I don't. . . ."  
Hiroshi sighed. "Listen, Ranma, do you remember what happened Saturday night?"  
"At the party? With Akane?"  
"No. After that."  
"It's -- well, it's kinda fuzzy."  
"Sayuri and I saw you, once, near the end of the night. You were pretty wasted, and looking for a bathroom. Ring any bells?"  
Another shrug. "Not really." Vague echo: girl, long black hair; mirror; some guy throwing up. "Maybe a little."  
"Well. . . I didn't see it myself, but some guys found you."  
"Found me?"  
"Yeah. Passed out on the bathroom floor."  
Ranma felt his face burn red. "Oh shit. I guess I kinda overdid it that night."  
"Yeah, Ranma, just a bit."  
"But what does that have to do with my nickname?" This time it was Hiroshi who flushed. Noticing his fidgeting, the pigtailed girl felt an uneasy sensation settle into his stomach. "Hiroshi?"  
"It's -- well, you see. . . when those guys found you, you were, well. . . naked. You must have been going for a crap or something, and just fell off the toilet. So when they found you, your, you know, your bottom was down. This morning word spread quickly that you were a, you know, natural redhead."  
"I don't get. . . 'natural redhead'?"  
"Your hair down there, Ranma," and Hiroshi pointed at the girl's crotch, "is the same as your hair up there. _That's_ what they're referring to when they call you 'Red'." He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Ranma. I don't know what to say. Some of the guys can be real jerks -- I guess you already knew that -- but I didn't think. . . ."  
The swelling pounding in Ranma's ears deafened him to Hiroshi's words. He leaned heavily against the lockers behind him. It was hot, suddenly sweltering, breathing labored and school uniform stifling. He closed his eyes against the mass of students surging past him, veiled smiles, smirks, hard glinting eyes and sly whispers; he closed his eyes against the redness suffusing his vision, fierce anger and fiercer self- loathing threatening to overwhelm him. Deep breath. Control.  
'I was going to tell them that it wasn't cool, calling you that, but, well, you know, I couldn't. . . .'  
Hiroshi's voice seemed far away, but discernible as the hammering in his head lessened. I shouldn't be this angry, Ranma told himself. It's not the first time I've been insulted. Ryoga and Mousse do it all the time. Taro. Happosai. Pop. Even. . . Akane. And it's never been that big of a deal. It's never hit this hard before.  
(But he knew that wasn't entirely true. The first time Akane called him 'pervert,' he remembered, it had hurt, stung him deeply, akin to the pain of today if not matching its intensity. Habituation had eased the bitterness of the word; would being called 'Red', one day, no longer arouse these feelings of betrayal and shame? Briefly he wondered if, each time he taunted Ryoga with 'P-chan', his rival felt the same lacerating rage.)  
'Just don't take it too. . . Ranma?'  
He would bear it, like he had born the many other affronts in his life. Rivals, parents, teachers, fiancees, friends, and the ultimate insult, the curse: he could carry them without complaint. He was a man, outward appearance notwithstanding, and he would bear this new insult like one. Everyone in the school had thought him a pervert at one time or another -- the original Ms. Hinako debacle came to mind -- but in the end he had succeeded. He was Ranma Saotome, and Ranma Saotome _always_ won, in the end.  
'Ranma?'  
If only he knew what he was fighting for.  
"Hey, Ranma!"  
"Yeah?"  
"Are you. . . so, ah, you're. . . okay with this?"  
"Yeah. Sure. It's only a joke, right?"  
"Oh. Ah, good." A heavy pause. "So then, weren't you gonna say why you're wearing that getup? And been a girl all weekend?"  
Ranma smiled, and if the smile seemed hard and sharp, and fell far short of his smoldering eyes, Hiroshi did a good job of neither commenting upon it nor flinching. "Sure. It's a long story. It has to do with my mom, you see. . . ."  
  
Ranma did not have time to finish his story before the break ended, and realized belatedly that he would now have to wait until lunch to retrieve his male clothing from Nabiki. An incident before returning to class helped him realize that, despite his efforts and tight restraint, he was still very, very angry:  
"I don't get it. Your dad signed a contract for you?"  
"Yeah. A sort of suicide pact."  
"But you were, like, only four!"  
"Pop's a few bamboo stalks short of a full. . . ."  
"Hey, 'Roshi; hey, Red -- time t'get back to class," intruded a male classmate.  
The superficial calm Ranma had lulled himself into through talking shattered. That single word, 'red', conjured up numerous intense and conflicting emotions: hot rage, embarrassment, the mental image of himself lying naked and unconscious surrounded by gawking and pointing boys. Briefly he imagined grabbing the boy by the neck and slamming him up against the locker, but he knew that he could not. His classmates were not martial artists. And by the time Ranma took a deep, steadying breath, the boy was gone, anyway. His anger slowly ebbed.  
And now, sitting in class, half-oblivious to Hinako's incessant droning, he could still feel that heat lurking within; in a way, it felt more reassuring than the constant depression and hollowness he had felt since confronting Akane last night before the gates to the Tendo household. A quick glance revealed his ex-fiancee intensely focused upon the teacher. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Hiroshi and Daisuke passing notes back and forth: Daisuke had wanted to know the full story of why Ranma was still a girl, but missed out on it during the break; apparently he was now being filled in. Seeing the slip of paper quickly exchanged gave Ranma an idea.  
Pulling out a page from his notebook, he quickly jotted down a message: 'We need to talk. Please? At lunch, by the tree? - Ranma.' Folding it in half, he wrote Akane's name on it, then quickly passed it backwards when the teacher wasn't looking. He then concentrated on Ms. Hinako, in the misplaced hope that his attention to her teachings might draw hers away from the letter.  
"So we can see," she was saying, gesticulating wildly at the scribble- covered blackboard, "how the text works on multiple layers of discourse. The wild dogs are, of course, an expression of authorial rage (known, of course, in literary circles as the 'Harnum effect') and an incarnation of the _Hortus conclusus_'s naturalistic lashing out as the protagonists invade this sheltered domain. The odd spectral anomaly which defies categorization and definition is the ineffable anthropomorphized; it is our two characters' ultimate inability to understand this projection of the island's essential characteristics that forces them to flee. Their hedonistic lifestyle when removed from the tight constraints of their previous econo-social framework -- rendering them akin to childlike Kurtz' on a smoother moralistic landscape -- indicate that innocence remains corrupt and the Prelapsarian state lies perpetually beyond their grasp: for them, paradise can not be regained, though hope remains in the form of their unexpected, and uniquely conceived, child. For, though denied them, the island is obviously the original _hortus conclusus_, the primal Eden despite its shadowy undercutting. The text is aptly named, then, as B-."  
Ranma desperately stifled a yawn. He remembered why he rarely listened to Ms. Hinako teach literature. Yet a quick glance revealed that his letter had yet to reach Akane. Why was it taking so long?  
"There remain, of course, aspects of the text that still require unravelling. What are we to make, for instance, of the first character's obviously gendered construct? Is she integrated Anima, or something other? As Anima, she is well suited to our second protagonist, especially when we consider his predilection for the stick -- obviously, an overt phallic symbol suggesting virility but potentially violent and disruptive sexual desires (and one must recall that, though symbolic of hope, the newborn child was delivered amidst violence and portentous suggestions of innate wrongness; the child, therefore, functions as a condensed synthesis of the discordant tensions between these sexual extremes). The spatial dichotomies also give credence to this type of gendered reading: the low- ground waterfall region indicative of the female sphere -- one must recall her fondness for fishing, the raft, and water in general -- as compared to the raised areas of male-dominance: the sole mountain, the phallic flint- column, the raised abode. The archetypal imagery is noticeably vivid, emphasized, and recurring. Which begs the question. . . ."  
A tickling on the back of his neck snapped him out of his near- comatose state. Without looking, he reached back and snagged the letter. He wondered what Akane had to say. Somehow, he doubted she would want to talk to him. Too bad, he decided. He wasn't sure when the determination had come upon him to confront her, but he knew it couldn't just end like this: whether he stayed or left, the Tendos' kicked him out or not, Akane forgave him or not, things would be made clear. If ever, now was the time for honesty.  
If only he knew what he felt, wanted to say, simply wanted.  
Glancing down at the note, he immediately realized that something was wrong. It was covered in writing, but in a dozen different scripts: and not one of them was Akane's. A dozen responses, all in obviously female hands, but somehow the message had clearly never made it to his fiancee. His ex-fiancee.  
"Jerk. Spaz. Pervert. If _I_ had a boyfriend like you, I'd a kicked you out months ago!"  
"Loser, you should be ashamed of yourself."  
"Stay away from my boyfriend, you flirt!"  
"You're ugly."  
"Is it that time of the month, or are you always like this?"  
"Big bully! Guys like you should be castrated. Oh, wait, you already have been."  
And finally, one that stood out, if only because it bore the author's signature:  
"Don't you think you've already done enough? Leave her alone. Bitch. Sayuri."  
His hand clenched convulsively, crumpling the note. Why were they saying these things? First the guys turned his curse into a joke, made his shame into a name and presented it for everyone to know; and now the girls insulted and mocked him. Two nights ago they had all been his friends, offering drinks freely, talking and joking, swimming and including him into their company. And now it felt to Ranma that they were all excluding him, again; and having tasted, if only briefly, the easy pleasure of being part of the group, this return to being an outsider was more painful than ever before. He had overheard them all, many a time before, insult and curse him. You're a showoff, Ranma. Casanova. Jerk. Bully. You're too violent, insensitive. Stop stealing our girls; stop stealing our guys. Why'd you do that, it's your fault it's broken, it's your fault the school's always falling apart. Never a thanks: for stopping the principal, Kuno, a bully; or for saving student and school alike from any of a dozen lunatics passing through Nerima. Not once had he ever touched or harmed a fellow student -- after all, they weren't martial artists -- but this is how they treat him?  
A sudden intense desire to simply stand up and leave gripped him, and he wondered, why shouldn't I? What do I gain by staying here, what do I care what these idiots think? The Tendos' is no longer my home, therefore neither is Nerima nor Furinkan. He felt the tenseness grow within, muscles taut, sudden possibility of easy freedom singing to his soul, and he lifted unconsciously ever so slightly out of his seat.  
Why stay? These people offered him nothing: friendship, wisdom, respect, care, lo-.  
"The answer is forty-two, Ms. Hinako."  
"Correct, Akane. Glad to see you were paying attention."  
The tenseness suddenly drained from his body and he fell back into his seat with a sigh. The crumpled note fell from listless hands and tumbled to the ground.  
  
Lunch arrived and, as quickly as circumstances would allow, Ranma flew from his classroom up to Nabiki's; but upon arriving there, found that she had already left, and was thus denied access to his male clothing. Instead, an all too-pleased Kuno greeted him with an overly-enthused caress, which a solid throw into a wall of lockers put to a quick end. Disgruntled and grumbling over the necessity at remaining female even longer, the pig-tailed girl returned to his locker to get lunch, only to remember that, in the morning's haste, he had forgotten it at the Tendo's. It was all he could do to refrain from tearing his locker door off its hinges out of frustration.  
"Hey, sugar, you okay?"  
He turned as Ukyou approached. She was dressed in her usual male school uniform, bandoleer of mini-spatulas draped across her chest and main weapon hefted over one shoulder, schoolbag slung over the other.  
"Hey, Ucchan. Yeah, I guess so."  
"That's a new look for you, ne?"  
Coloring slightly, he glanced down at the blue Furinken uniform. "Long story. Not my choice, trust me. I'm stuck like this for a bit."  
"Dark magic? Evil demon? Vengeful enemy?"  
"Nah, just Nabiki."  
Ucchan smirked, and gave him a consoling pat on the shoulder. "Even worse."  
He smiled and found, despite himself, his mood lifting. Considering how everyone seemed to be treating him this morning, a few moments with a genuine friend was a comforting relief.  
He followed Ukyou to her locker, waited as she unloaded her bandoleer and textbooks, then eagerly accepted the offer of lunch. As they headed outside, Ranma could not help but notice the many and varied looks and comments sent his way. Lewd winks, hostile glares, shouted 'Red!'s, half- whispered insults. He tried to ignore them all and focused on leaving the building without hitting anyone or anything. Once out on the field behind the school, the okonomiyaki chef pulled out her portable griddle and ingredients, and started whipping up some batter as the grill heated. Without looking away from her preparations, she suddenly asked, "Ranchan, what the hell is going on?"  
"Huh?"  
"With those jerks back at the school."  
"You don't know? I'm surprised, it's all anyone's talkin' about."  
"Hey, sugar, don't forget I've been at work all morning. I just got here. And I don't listen to what half those bimbos hafta say, anyway. Especially when it concerns my Ranma-honey."  
Hearing someone come to his defense was heartening, although he wondered what, exactly, those 'bimbos' were saying about him that he wasn't aware of.  
"So what're they saying this time?"  
"Aw, the usual, you know?" Then he sighed. "No, not the usual. I dunno. It has ta do with this weekend."  
"Kiyoshi's party?"  
"Yeah." He paused, then it struck him for the first time that he had not seen Ukyou that night. "Hey, why didn't you come, anyway?"  
A tremor of subdued disappointment underscored her answer. "I couldn't get away from work -- and, well, I guess Kiyoshi forgot to invite me."  
"He didn't invite me either, I just kinda tagged along with Akane."  
Ukyou poured a droplet of batter onto a coin-shaped puddle of oil, watched it briefly skip and sizzle. "Yeah. I would've gone too if someone had asked me."  
"Oh."  
He looked off into the distance, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. Some guys were playing baseball, other throwing a football around. Guys and girls were idly drifting in small pockets, talking, laughing, incomprehensible snippets of phrases and giggles drifting to him on the wind. He wondered where Akane was. The smell of cooking okonomiyaki drew his attention back, and Ranma realized that Ukyou was probably still waiting to hear what had happened over the weekend. With some hesitance, he started to explain.  
Ukyou interrupted him as she slid his meal onto a plate. "Whoa there, sugar! Uehara did _what_?"  
"Threw his drink at me. Then started making fun of my girl-side."  
She let out a low whistle. "Not too bright. What didja do?"  
He shrugged. "Beat the shit outta him."  
"Ouch."  
"Yeah. Last I saw of him that night. But I shouldn't a done it. He was a bully -- not a martial artist. I should've kept my cool."  
"But-."  
"No." He punctuated his negative by stabbing a piece of shrimp with his fork. "No 'but's. It was too easy. And I'd promised Akane I wouldn't get into any fights that night."  
"Is that why she's not around? She pissed off?"  
Ranma gave a mirthless laugh. "I wish. I wish she was pissed off."  
She placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "What happened?"  
His gaze dropped. "We fought. Big time. And she killed the engagement. For real, this time." Ranma shook his head. "It's really bad. I think the Tendos are gonna throw me out, and really, I can't blame 'em. I don't know what to do, Ucchan."  
After a brief pause in which she failed to respond, he looked up. Something about the sudden predatory glint in Ukyou's eyes frightened him. She sidled over next to him, leaning in close. Her hands found his and held them in what was, he assumed, supposed to be a supportive gesture. It made him nervous.  
"Don't worry about a thing, Ranchan. Your cute fiancee will take care of everything: when you get -- I mean, _if_ you get kicked out -- we wouldn't want _that_ to happen, of course, but, let's face it, sugar, when dealing with the Tendos, you never know _what_ to expect -- you can come stay with _me_!"  
"But-."  
She silenced him with a finger placed firmly (a little _too_ firmly, he thought) against his lips.  
"I know what you're going to say. Don't worry, it's not a problem, really! And if you're worried about the money. . . don't be! You can work at the _Ucchan_ during your free time, after all, you make one hell of a waitress."  
"Hey, waita. . . ."  
"Oh, this is just so exciting!" She was almost bouncing up and down with glee. "We'll have to figure out what to do with your sack-of-lard father, of course. Maybe a kiddie-ride? We can set up a. . . ."  
"Er, yeah. Hold that thought." He jumped to his feet, catching a sudden glimpse of Nabiki off in the distance. "I, ah. . . gotta go." Without waiting for an answer, he sprinted away. Crossing the field, he asked himself, what was I thinking, telling her that? I keep forgetting: Ucchan's not a friend. She's a fiancee.  
  
Dealing with Nabiki, Ranma mused, was somewhat akin to dealing with a cat: though small and relatively harmless looking, her outward appearance belied the terrifying and formidable foe that lurked behind the facade; and just like a cat, she was as prone to simply toy with her plaything -- claws retracted and playfully boxing to relieve boredom -- as she was to shred her prey once her ire was raised. And like most encounters he had endured with felines, he more often than not came away from Nabiki feeling both drained and humiliated. The difference, of course, was that at least cats usually left his wallet unharmed; not so the middle Tendo daughter. Shivering unconsciously, he tried to banish the persistent image of a languorously stretching Nabiki dressed in a cat-suit from his mind.  
Approaching her and the accompanying circle of friends, he couldn't help but feel he was entering into what would be a very difficult and costly battle. He suddenly wondered if, like everyone else, she had heard of what transpired at Kiyoshi's party two nights ago.  
One glance at her and Ranma understood that Nabiki knew. She was angry. Normally she kept careful control of her emotions, but as she took note of his approach clear and unmistakable anger swept across her features, washing aside the casual pleasure she seemed to enjoy with the other girls. But whereas they cast hot, hostile looks his way, Nabiki's anger was cold: it glinted glacially beneath narrowed eyes and betrayed itself through a clenched fist, her stiffened back. The girls he ignored with ease; Nabiki's unwavering diffident gaze chilled him. Steeling himself, he walked up to her. Again he railed against the shortness the curse imposed upon him when in his female body: it was hard to feel confident when all the girls, Nabiki included, seemed to tower overhead.  
"Nabiki," he started, but was cut off as one of her lackeys -- Anami was her name, he remembered -- barred the way.  
"You have some nerve," she hissed. "You bastard."  
"Hey, I-."  
Another girl, Akemi, joined her friend. "Go away, you jerk."  
He felt himself losing ground. Like in any battle, momentum was everything, and his had been cut away before getting a single word in. He had never been good at confrontations with girls, especially when they didn't involve martial arts. Ignoring an instinctive urge to back away and leave, he ignored the two and called past them. "Nabiki -- Nabiki, c'mon, I just wanna talk!"  
"Why should she talk to an asshole like you?"  
"You get your thrills beating up on girls?"  
"Akane wasn't enough, you want to try her sister now, too?"  
"You think we're going to let you?"  
The sudden and intense anger that roiled and surged up within him must have been apparent in his face, for a flicker of fear swept across the gathered girls and they took a hesitant step back. How dare they accuse me of that? I do _not_ beat up on girls, he thought, but at the same time, _do they really think they could stop me_ flashed across his mind as he unconsciously assessed the fighting ability of the young women before him. That they would suggest he would purposefully hurt Akane, could take pleasure in harming Nabiki, fed his rage; but the realization that he considered -- no matter how briefly -- actually fighting his way past his accusers was like water on fire, dousing his emotions and leaving him feeling momentarily stunned.  
A short, calming breath, and he tried again, a hint of pleading creeping into his voice. "Nabiki, I-."  
Anami obviously found enough courage to cut him off again. "You just don't," she started, but was in turn interrupted by Nabiki.  
"It's okay, girls. I've been meaning to talk to Saotome, anyway. Now's as good a time as any."  
Reluctantly and with evil eyes, Nabiki's friends backed off. The Tendo sister came forward and, without a word, took Ranma by the arm and pulled him aside. With enough distance to ensure a modicum of privacy, she confronted him.  
"So. What can I help you with, Saotome?"  
"Well. That is. . . I -- I'd like my clothes back. Nabiki. Ah, please?"  
"Is that all?"  
"Umm, yes?"  
"No, Ranma, that is not all. Not by a long shot."  
Her voice was only slightly above a very hard, very dangerous whisper. He gulped.  
"Then, what-."  
"What else? There's the little matter of my sister."  
"Akane."  
"No, Kasumi. Of course Akane, you dolt. There's a lot of rumors going around right now, Saotome. Really nasty stuff. About Kiyoshi's party. About you. You drinking. You and my sister."  
"Nabiki. . . ."  
"Did you hurt my sister?"  
"You don't. . . ."  
"DID YOU HURT MY SISTER?" Her voice, loud, angry, sharp, seemed to echo across a schoolyard that was suddenly eerily quiet.  
His gaze dropped to the ground, unable to meet hers any longer. "Yes," he whispered.  
"Did you hit my sister?"  
And now his head snapped back up, shocked at the very idea. "No!"  
There was a brief moment in which penetrating, appraising hazel eyes locked with his. She gave the slightest of nods, as if coming to a decision. Some of the tenseness seemed to ease out of Nabiki. "No, I suppose you didn't. That's not like you. You may be a jerk-and-a-half, Ranma, but I don't think you'd hit my sister."  
He suppressed a sigh of relief.  
"But you _did_ hurt her, and you're going to pay for that." His hand twitched instinctively for his wallet, before he realized that, what with wearing a skirt and everything, he didn't have it on him. The motion was not lost on Nabiki. "Oh no, Saotome. You're not going to get off that easy. You think you can bribe you way out of something like this?" Her eyes glinted. "This isn't some blouse you've stained or some cooking experiment you've avoided or some meal you sneaked off to behind my sister's back: this is family."  
She punctuated her statement with a sharp jab of the finger to his chest. Her now-raised voice was easily heard by the numerous onlookers and eavesdroppers. "Family, Saotome. Nobody -- not even the 'mighty' Ranma Saotome -- messes with a Tendo and gets away with it! Understand? Did you really think _money_ would excuse what you've done?"  
Ranma, visibly sweating, swallowed nervously. He hated it when Nabiki got like this. The image of Nabiki-in-a-cat-suit flashed before his eyes again, rearing back and paws ready to strike. Did claws glint in schoolyard sunlight? "No -- no! Of course not!"  
"That's right, Ranma," she said, stepping forward. "Not money. . . ."  
"Then - then what?"  
"I expect nothing less than . . . ."  
He winced in anticipation.  
"A full calendar-style photo shoot! No, make that two! A swimsuit edition and a lingerie edition!"  
It took Ranma's brain a moment to recuperate, and Nabiki was there to help him recover from were he lay sprawled on the ground. He was only dimly aware of the laughs and jeers coming from around them; his attention was entirely fixated on her. What was Nabiki up to? She was waving and grinning at her friends and schoolmates as she pulled him to his feet.  
But then her grip tightened, surprisingly painful on his arm, and she addressed him in a whisper he knew was meant for his ears only. "I'm serious, Ranma: you're not off the hook. When I'm done sifting through the rumors and exaggerations, I'll know exactly what went on. If what I've heard is true, and Daddy-dearest finds out, you'll find yourself kicked out of the house so fucking fast your chestnut fist'll seem a parlor trick in comparison. You messed up big, Saotome, and it's gonna cost you, big. Silence ain't cheap." She released her grip on his arm.  
"Ta ta!" She turned and walked away, speaking to him over her shoulder, voice back to normal. "And we'll set up an appointment for your 'session' later."  
It was a testament, perhaps, to how seriously he wanted to return to manhood that, momentarily pushing aside concerns over what she had said, he called out after her. "But, Nabiki -- what about my clothes?"  
She glanced back and smirked. "What, you think I'm going to waste the rest of my lunch break on _you_? Get real. I heard you had a good time as a girl at Kiyoshi's, so what's one more afternoon?"  
Nabiki rejoined her circle of friends. Ranma, after a few moments, trudged off as well. He had no idea where he was going, he only knew that he was heading there alone.  
  
The guys were hanging out behind the school, leaning against the tree and sprawled out in the dirt.  
"Yeah, Kiyoshi, that was your best yet!"  
"You think?"  
"_Definitely_, man."  
"Cool."  
"Didja invite all those people?"  
"Nah. But I figured, you know, invite ten, twenty buddies, they bring their girlfriends, they tell their friends, word spreads. . . at peak, rough count, I'd say over a hundred were there at a time."  
"Wow."  
"Yeah. But next time. . . ."  
"There _will_ be a next time, right?"  
"Of course! But next time, somebody's gonna be bouncer."  
"Bouncer?"  
"Damn straight! I had busted chairs, weird shit floating in the pool, a hole in the basement wall; smashed bottled _everywhere_, and, like, even the fridge got raided! And then, of course, fights. . . ."  
"You mean, like Ranma and Uehara?"  
"Or Ranma and Akane?"  
"Yeah. And others."  
"Really? Who?"  
"Well, Tanachi and Saeko pushed each other around a bit."  
"Was it over that foreign girl again?"  
"Yeah. Somebody tangled in my sis's bedroom, too: had to wash the blood outta the sheets and everything -- man, was she _pissed_, even threatened to tell my parents."  
"Damn. But, I mean, who'd you use? With people like Ranma and Uehara crashing your party, you'd hafta be nuts to be bouncer."  
"Yeah, I guess."  
"Unless. . . hey, you could ask Ranma or something!"  
"You're kidding, right?"  
"Well. . . ."  
"No way. I mean, I used to think he was pretty okay, you know? A bit weird and all, what with turning into a chick and all that -- but, well, still an okay guy. And now? Shit, the guy beats up on his girlfriend!"  
"I dunno, man. I thought she just dumped him."  
"Yeah, sure, because he came in all hammered and everything, tried pawing at her. But when she pushed him away he got all violent and shit. Threw a punch at her. But Akane, she's a martial artist too, right? Blocked him and dumped him -- which pissed him off even more -- then took off. Ranma was, like, so flipping out that he almost started beating up the other guys around him!"  
"No way!"  
"Yeah, Kaori told me! But if you don't believe me, go check Kokichi's neck: he's got the strangle marks to prove it. Or go ask Sayuri, she was there, she'll tell ya what happened."  
"Wow. I had -- I had no idea. I always thought he was, you know, all things considering, a pretty nice guy."  
"Yeah. Me too. But you know, those martial arts types, you just can't trust 'em!"  
"I guess. . . ."  
"Aw, shit. There's the bell. Let's go."  
The group scrambled to their feet and took off at a jogging walk towards the school. A minute later, with some rustling and a flutter of leaves, Ranma Saotome jumped from his perch amidst the branches of the tree. He took a moment to smooth down his skirt and brushed some dirt from his blouse, and then, once Kiyoshi and his friends were out of sight, slowly followed their path back towards Furinkan.  
  
Hiroshi watched in silence from the rear of the class. An ill feeling brewed in his stomach. Having overheard the escalating rumors, the exaggerations, the speculations, he knew that Ranma could not be taking this well. Thus he was surprised when, just before the second bell rang, the pigtailed girl strode into the classroom and took her seat. She seemed calm, face expressionless and placid. Without a word she pulled out her textbook and notepad, placed her hands softly on the desk, and, looking straight ahead, quietly awaited the arrival of the teacher.  
Conversation died upon her arrival but quickly resumed. There were numerous verbal taunts and insults that must of reached her ear, but not once did she acknowledge the speaker nor turn in her seat. No one approached her directly.  
"She's taking it pretty well, I think."  
"I dunno, Daisuke," answered Hiroshi. "I've never seen her like this. Ranma's not the quiet type."  
"Aw, heck, she gets teased plenty."  
"Not like this, man."  
"True. Hey, know what the latest rumor I've heard is? That she's actually buddies with Uehara. No shit! Supposedly she set up the whole fight thing, to look good or something."  
"That's such bullshit! This crap's getting out of hand. Know what I heard? That after getting drunk she screwed a coupla guys at the party. It's. . . it pisses me off!"  
Daisuke paled. "Oh man."  
"Yeah."  
"She -- er, he'll be _really_ ticked off when he finds out about that one."  
Then the teacher took his place at the front of the class and, after a quick scurry to their respective desks and the ringing of the second bell, the students were washed over by an incessant droning that was intended to warm their youthful hearts to the wonders of introductory algebra. It failed, and a flurry of secretive note-passing commenced. Hiroshi had little doubt what the subject of the numerous little papers were.  
The only two students who appeared to be paying attention, he noted, was the broken couple. That Akane was listening was nothing unusual; Ranma, on the other hand, had never proven to be the best of students. Yet there she was, sitting primly and straight-backed at her desk, diligently taking notes and listening to the teacher with the utmost attention and focus.  
Could it be she wasn't aware of the stories going around about her? Or maybe Ranma had simply dismissed them. Some of the tales were, after all, so obviously overblown that only a complete idiot would believe them: Kuno had, over the lunch-break, sworn no less than seven oaths of vengeance, death, and humiliation against 'that vile sorcerer' and 'abuser of women' Ranma Saotome.  
Problem was, some of the rumors and insults being passed around were far subtler and contained disturbing snippets of the truth. Minor manipulations of the fight between Ranma and Uehara, twists of Ranma's words from around the fireplace that night, slight embellishments of the incident with Akane: these near-truths promised to wound the martial-artist far deeper than any obvious lie. By turning her self-confessed weaknesses against her -- fears concerning menstruation, facets of her youth, hints of unhappiness, aspects of that night -- these insults were proving far uglier than any in the past.  
And it's my fault, Hiroshi thought. I promised Ranma I wouldn't tell anyone the stuff she told me, she trusted me, she confided in me, and I betrayed her. Without realizing it, he had provided Sayuri with the ammunition she needed to strike back at the man that, for reasons Hiroshi couldn't fathom, she seemed to hate. And so I sit back and let my girlfriend spread lies about my friend, he told himself, and I sit back as the guys call her 'Red,' and the girls call her a red-haired bitch, and the one night Ranma allows herself to relax and open-up gets twisted into another example of why she shouldn't. I sit back and say nothing and don't come to my friend's defense and don't even hang out with him over lunch.  
And though he tried to rationalize it -- it's partly Ranma's fault, she isn't helping by coming to school as a girl, she _did_ act like an ass getting drunk like that; Akane isn't helping either, staying quiet and keeping to herself -- he knew, in the end, the real reason why he didn't say anything: cowardice. After all, he was part of the group, he finally had a girlfriend -- a popular one at that! -- and he could not bring himself to risk all that with a gesture that would ultimately achieve nothing, anyway.  
Feeling sick at his own inability and unwillingness to come to his friend's aid, Hiroshi sank deeper into his seat and awaited the end of class.  
  
Afternoon gym: the period he had eagerly awaited all day. A chance to let off some steam, to work off some aggression. To prove he was the same Ranma as the week before, and the month before that. And, more importantly, the last class of a day that had, even more than anticipated, proven to be very, very bad.  
But now, once again, even this simple pleasure was being denied him. Someone had broken into his locker and stolen his gym clothes. Realizing belatedly that he could have worn _those_ if he had turned back into a man this morning did nothing to improve his mood. This loss of another opportunity to return to maleness overshadowed even his outrage at having the privacy of his locker violated. For the umpteenth time that afternoon he took a deep, calming breath and clenched his fist so tight he felt nail dig painfully into calloused palm.  
When he opened his eyes he felt another's gaze upon him; and glancing to the side, saw Akane, reaching into her locker, looking at him. Their eyes locked, and for the indeterminable time during which nothing existed but those large, soft, brown eyes, the troubles of the day faded into inconsequentiality. For a moment -- the briefest of moments -- she even seemed to look at him with sadness, or regret, or sympathy; but then her gaze hardened, and she looked away, and pulling her gym bag from her locker, left without another word.  
He sighed and trudged, alone, towards the gym.  
His lack of proper clothing did not concern him overly much. After all, school dress regulations had meant little to him in the past, and neither the skirt nor blouse would hinder his athleticism. If fighting with a pig chained to his wrist had taught him anything, it was how to ignore the little distractions when it was time to perform.  
Unfortunately, it seemed that, once again, this day would not be going his way.  
The boys and girls quickly separated into their respective groups, the former to play soccer and the latter, baseball. Ranma moved to join the other guys when a hand pulled him back.  
"Sorry, Saotome, but no-can-do."  
He gave the coach a quizzical glance. "Huh? Why not?"  
"Uniform."  
"Aw, c'mon Coach, I've never had to wear a uniform before!"  
The teacher scowled at that. "Just because you got away with it in the past doesn't make it right, Saotome! But that's not the reason. I just can't have you running around out there dressed like that."  
"But it's no big deal, honest," protested Ranma. "Just 'cus I'm wearing a stupid skirt don't mean I can't play soccer!"  
"It's not that. It's your shoes. Mandatory policy: you have to wear proper footwear out there. School's worried you might slip and hurt yourself."  
"But-."  
"Not 'buts,' Saotome. I know you're pretty tough, but rules are rules, and _this_ one the principal hasn't excluded you from. You'd be a distraction to the team, anyway, dressed like that. So no soccer." The teacher looked around, them motioned over towards the baseball diamond. "Err, I dunno. Go join the girls, play some baseball."  
Ranma opened his mouth, closed it, and, glowering, turned away and stalked towards the girl's end of the field. Improper footwear? Hurt himself slipping on the grass? Distraction? What kind of bullshit was this, anyway? Well, whatever. Although not as enjoyable as a rousing game of soccer, maybe knocking a few balls into the stratosphere would prove as satisfying.  
But as he approached the diamond, he knew that would probably prove unlikely. He steeled himself to continue as, upon noticing his arrival, the girls stopped their game and turned what seemed a collective glare his way. The assistant coach came forward.  
"Ah, sorry about this, Mrs. Tanaka," he said. "Coach told me to join the girls today. 'Cus of my uniform. Guess it's okay for baseball, tho'."  
Tanaka shrugged. "Fine." She gestured towards the bench. "You can join the red team. You'll be up at bat after Yuka."  
Ranma sat next to Akane's friend.  
"I'm sorry, Ranma." A faint whisper reached his ear, and to his surprise he realized it was Yuka. She didn't look at him but, eyes downcast, spoke softly again. "I really am." And then she stood up and stepped away. After a moment Ranma realized that all the girls in the dugout were moving back, effectively isolating him on the bench. They turned baleful eyes his way and said nothing.  
A moment later the assistant coach realized that the game had ground to a halt and, looking up from her clipboard, walked over to the diamond. "What's going on, girls? Why aren't you playing?"  
"Because of _her_." Sayuri stepped forward off of first base and pointed an accusing finger at Ranma. "We don't want to play with _her_."  
After a quizzical glance Ranma's way, Mrs. Tanaka asked, "What's wrong with Saotome? Err, other than the obvious, I guess." The last was muttered but, to Ranma at least, quite audible.  
"Well, she's a _guy_!"  
"But she's a girl right now!"  
"But we all _know_ she's really a guy -- and this is supposed to be a girl's game. I'm sorry, Mrs. Tanaka, but I just don't feel _comfortable_, knowing a guy, even one wearing a skirt, is playing with us."  
After a sigh, the assistant coach addressed the rest of the girls. "Does anyone else feel this way?"  
About half the hands immediately shot up, soon followed by most of the rest. A few girls seemed reluctant, some even angry, but eventually nevertheless joined the rest of their peers; Yuka, Ranma noted, was the last to raise her hand. To his surprise, however, Akane, standing somewhat back from the other girls and bearing a neutral expression, kept her arms at her side. She spared a quick glance his way before staring out into left-field.  
Mrs. Tanaka approached the bench and kneeled next to the sitting redhead. "Listen," she said, softly. "I don't know what's going on here. They're not being fair, but if I let you play, they won't -- and it'll go up the ranks that I couldn't control my class, and it'll be on my head. I'm sorry, Ranma. I guess -- I guess you'll have to sit this one out. Watch from the sidelines or something."  
I almost made it through the entire day, he thought. I was so close.  
There was a long moment of silence and absolute clarity.  
Without a word, without the slightest acknowledgment, Ranma stood. He spared a long look at the girls gathered on the diamond, slowly scanning across them. The brief surge of contempt he felt for them, though quickly gone, must have been apparent in his face: for some, unable to meet his gaze, looked away. He ended by matching stares with Sayuri. Her lips curled into a sneer of triumph; in response, he smiled, ever so slightly, and watched the sudden uncertainty that flickered across her eyes. Then, walking forward -- he took no pleasure, nor shame, from the hesitant steps back some of the girls took at his approach; much to his own surprise, he felt curiously nothing about the situation -- he picked up the dropped baseball bat and ball. For a moment he gazed off into the distance, into the clear unspotted sky. He lightly tossed up the ball. For a moment it seemed suspended. With as much strength as he could muster, with all the control and fluidity and power that seventeen years of martial arts training had wrought, he slammed the ball into the distance. It disappeared with a resounding crack.  
Lip curling into a thin one-sided smile, he nodded in satisfaction, then softly lay the bat back on the ground. He turned. Walked away. Enjoyed the silence left in his wake and the certainty that a decision made brought.  
He was dimly aware, as he strode towards the school in an unhurried but unflagging pace, that the teachers were calling after him; that the students behind had regained their voice; that some were following him; that insults were being hurled his way: but he cared not. Entering the halls of Furinkan, he made his way to his locker. Those who had followed stayed a respectful distance away as he calmly entered his combination, opened the door, removed his schoolbag, closed and re-locked the door. He continued his path through the school.  
The crowd of followers grew bigger, as the rest of his class caught up, as extra teachers were called in, as more students noticed the procession. Passing by a bathroom, Ranma halted. He disappeared within, and in his absence uncertainty prevailed: should someone follow him? Before a consensus could be reached, he reemerged, smiling: that smile grew as, taller, more muscular, dark-haired -- _male_ -- he resumed his march. A minute later, he stopped once more before another locker. The lock on it was of a quality and level of sophistication obviously superior to any other around it. Nabiki's. After a second's thought, he grabbed the door on either side and easily yanked it off its hinges. He felt rather than saw the collective start of those watching as the metal shrieked, bolts popping, and he tossed the locker door aside with a loud clatter. Rummaging quickly through her stuff, he soon retrieved a clothing bag. With a sense of triumph he pulled out his clothes.  
His grin flagged slightly when he saw their condition. Someone -- Nabiki, he presumed -- had taken a pair of scissors to his pants and shirt. There were a number of very unflattering kanji slashed into the fabric. His favorite red shirt and black pants were quite unwearable. With a shrug he tossed them aside. So what, he decided, if I'm a guy wearing a skirt and blouse. Who cares what these people think. They mean nothing to me.  
Nothing.  
Ranma walked straight towards them, and they stepped aside before his unwavering stride. He did not know what he would have done if someone had actually stood up to him; he figured it would most likely have been quite violent and something that, much later, he might regret. But at this moment, with the sea of blank, insignificant faces parting before him, with all the emotions and passions and memories of the day faded into a dull smothering haze enveloping him, he cared very little indeed.  
One face -- briefly glimpsed, quickly avoided, utterly unreadable -- nearly penetrated that consumptive hollowness: but even Akane's brown, brown eyes failed to reach him.  
As he cleared the last of the students and faculty that had followed him, he stopped. Faced them. Again his lip curled up into that enigmatic half-smirk. He cleared his throat, took pleasure in the feeling of his newly-returned Adam's apple bobbing within. Gave a slight bow from the neck.  
"I'm Ranma Saotome," he said. "Sorry 'bout this."  
Turning his back on them all he left Furinkan High School.  
  
*** Dilemma Ends ***  
  
Continues in Choices: Contemplation 


	3. Choices: Contemplation

Choices  
  
Part Three: Contemplation by Michael Noakes  
  
Burning embers floated high on the night wind to flicker briefly among the stars before flaring, fading, dying. Their dizzying dance twirled amongst the smoke and silence as they drifted into the sky. A cascade of sparks flared, the result of an idle poke at the source, but the sudden intensity dulled quickly and the fire returned to a slow, crackling simmer. The young man beneath the tree leaned back and stared up at the evening sky through a thick canopy of shifting branches and leaves.  
Earlier that day the variety of sights and wilderness colours had struck him with their vividness and acuteness. Now all was shades of grey and black, the fire providing the only colour with its flickering oranges and popping reds. Beneath the softly flowing wind, even sounds were subdued: the night was quiet, and calm, and Ranma Saotome felt at ease.  
Aching muscles and sheer exhaustion urged rest, but he resisted the lull of sleep so as to enjoy the moment, even if but briefly. It was his first night in far too long spent outdoors, the firmament his ceiling, this bower of trees and interlaced branches his chamber, a knotted root his pillow, the earth his bed; cursing, he pulled a rock from the small of his back and wished that nature included more creature comforts -- he felt cold, and hungry, and uncomfortable, and began to question what he was doing out in the middle of nowhere.  
I must be getting soft, Ranma thought. This is just what I need: a training voyage, to regain my edge. Get strong again. Just like the old days, me and Pop wandering and training. But a glance to the side revealed a conspicuous absence. No, not like the old days, amended the boy, this time I'm alone. Genma had to be left behind, of course. He wouldn't have understood, and even if he had, would have interfered. Weird, he thought. He's made my life hell, got me engaged, got me cursed, made rivals of possible friends, made of me a shame to my mother; he beat me and threw me to the cats and never took it easy on me for one day out of those ten years of training . . . and yet I think I miss the idiot. Thing was, he's always been there. Now I'm alone.  
Yet nevertheless at ease, since despite the weariness the day's hike had worn into his bones, for the first time in far too long -- for perhaps the first time, period -- no one was imposing demands upon him, no death threats, no wedding threats. For the first time he could remember, he felt free.  
The opportunity would be put to good use, too, he decided. Without his father to cook up bizarre and potentially dangerous -- but, Ranma had to admit, ultimately very creative and efficient -- techniques, it was up to himself to design his training agenda for the next week. He had brought a minimum of supplies: everything he ate, drank, slept on or under, would come from his own efforts: hard, straightforward work, he figured, as much as he disliked unnecessary labour, would establish a strong foundation for further practice. Then perhaps some perfection of his technique. Some speed training. Physical conditioning. Maybe some deep meditation, if not for his chi techniques, then at least to move beyond the events of the last few days. He closed his eyes, soothed by the scents carried on the breeze, settling deeper into the ground, his mind passing back over the terrain he had covered, picking out likely training spots, forming a tentative regime for the week. And at the end of those seven days. . . .  
It would be time to return ho- to the Tendos. He had promised: would he remain beholden to his word? He had seven days to decide. This morning, he would have denied ever going back, but by the afternoon his resolve had wavered. And now?  
Ranma slept.  
  
Decisions once made impart passion and clarity of mind, but such singularity of purpose endures but briefly; and so it was that, as Ranma Saotome walked home that afternoon, the first stirring of doubt assailed him. The open stares and gawking of the pedestrians at the pigtailed boy that passed them by wearing a school skirt and blouse disturbed him not -- he was inured to mockery, for the opinion of such as them currently meant nothing to him -- but the reality of what he intended to do intruded upon his detached calm.  
To leave the Tendos was one thing, but where would he go? As he passed along the Nerima canal he ran options through his mind. Ukyou, the Amazons: not likely; leaving one fiancee's house for another would simply compound his problems. The Kunos? The thought of fleecing Tatewaki and Kodachi for a few weeks brought a smirk to his lips, but he doubted he could do so without losing his mind. Maybe his mother's house? As a last resort, perhaps, but the idea of spending a week or two as a female -- and putting up with her efforts to redeem 'Ranko's' femininity -- was almost as unappealing as living with the Kunos.  
He wondered what normal kids did when they ran away from home, whether they had plans or goals or a clearer idea of what they were doing -- then frowned at the implication. I'm not 'running away,' he told himself. I'm moving on.  
Not knowing where he was moving to did not subdue the memory of where he was coming from, or of what he was leaving behind. Furinkan High School. The guys, false and perverse, one night calling him friend, the next day insulting and mocking him; the girls, shallow and cruel, believing lies, perpetuating worse exaggerations. So what. I was an idiot, Ranma told himself, to try and fit in with those jerks. Who needs people like that? My enemies make better friends than those people at school. At least with Ryoga and Mousse, I know where they're coming from: they're rivals, and sneaky, and liars and cheats and. . . . For a moment he forgot exactly _why_ they were better than the people at school. Oh yeah: because at least they were _honest_ rivals: they never hid the fact that they'd take any opportunity to kick his ass (Ranma sneered at the idea) and steal both fiancee and cure from him given the opportunity. Yet despite this -- perhaps because of this -- they made the best of allies when the going got really tough. He'd never turn to those idiots back at Furinkan for help. For anything. He'd never go back to that school.  
He kicked a wayward pop can lying on the street and watched it bounce, clattering, down the pavement. How did it happen, he wondered, why did they turn on me like that? That some people would insult him came as no surprise: Sayuri, for instance, had obviously disliked him from the day he arrived in Nerima, for reasons he simply could not fathom. But why Yuka, when they had got along so well the night of the party? And then Hiroshi: the guy had professed to be a good friend, had listened and offered advice, had 'bonded,' as he put it -- and then went and spread secrets given in confidence, and allowed lies to propagate by keeping silent, when he damn well knew those stories going around were untrue! If that was the kind of friends one made in high school, then screw it, Ranma told himself. At least when Ryoga pounds me in the head, I know he's being genuine about it.  
And then, with little awareness of either time or distance having passed, Ranma stood before the Tendo residence, and his previous concerns became inconsequential. Having arrived, he now had to decide whether he was to stay; to his surprise, he found very little remorse over the idea of leaving this place forever. After all, what was there to keep him here? Not Akane, certainly, for whatever feelings he had for her were obviously never to be reciprocated; though it galled him to admit defeat in any battle, he knew this one was hopeless. The other sisters? Nabiki he would gladly bid good riddance to; Kasumi would be missed, and Ranma wished there was some way to thank her before leaving. As for Soun and his father -- well, he'd find some way to make it up to them, although considering the trouble they'd caused him in the last year, it wouldn't take long to pay up _that_ bill. The dishonor of leaving his marriage promises unfulfilled bothered him, but why should the onus always fall on _him_, he decided. Akane was the one who broke our fathers' oath this time, let her deal with the consequences for once! 'Cus by the time our parents figure out what's going on, I don't plan on being here no more.  
With a dismissive shrug, he stepped into the house.  
He ignored the two fathers playing shogi, offered a greeting in passing to Kasumi, and headed straight to his room. Only it wasn't his room anymore, of course; looking around, he realized it had _never_ been his room. Where were the dozen little touches that marked a place as belonging to someone, the character identifiers and knick-knacks of personality that said, 'Ranma Saotome lives here'? Aside for the few outfits he had hanging in the closet (into one of which he quickly changed, tossing the Furinkan schoolgirl uniform aside), the camping gear stored beneath it, the few personal items shut away in the dresser, there was little to nothing. One had to own stuff to display it, and everything he had ever left out had either been repossessed by Nabiki (if valuable), inadvertently thrown out by Kasumi (if ugly or clashing with the room's original decor), or broken by Akane (or by any number of suitors or rivals). Even necessary items, such as school books and training equipment, were either kept out of sight or in the dojo. For the first time it occurred to him that, whether consciously or not, the Tendos had made every effort to minimize his impact upon his own room. He wondered if the effect extended throughout the entire house. Of course, erasing his presence wasn't possible, the sheer property damage he had either directly or indirectly caused to the household ensuring that. But once the fresh paint faded, the holes were patched, the scars healed -- once the only visible signs that a Ranma Saotome had ever spent a year-and-a-half within these Tendo walls were gone, would he be forgotten?  
Then he thought, did I bring anything to this household other than violence?  
What about to the school?  
He looked around the mostly empty room. Listened to the sounds of the house: Kasumi, softly singing to herself as she passed by; the clink of mugs raised in cheer; the banging of a door. Zephyrous whispering of wind slipping in through an open window, coiling across the room, extending, breathing down the hallway, up stairs, touching on closed doors -- three sisters, clapping of a wooden duck -- and now down, stirring hanging beads and the aromas of the oft-visited kitchen, then through a family room that never was, and finally. . . .  
Out the back, free once again.  
A lifetime of short stays and hasty departures made him a quick packer. It took mere seconds for his dusty and worn pack to be retrieved from the closet and laid out upon the floor. It had not even been disassembled, Genma having taught him the value of foresight and preparation when it came to unexpected travel. Meager possessions were quickly sorted through, absolute essentials chosen and trivialities tossed to the garbage -- he wouldn't be returning for them, so why bother putting them away? Into the pack he shoved his gi, intact but so worn and used it had begun to turn grey; it was followed by an extra set of black pants and red shirt, his last pair considering what Nabiki had done to his clothes at school. Some underwear and socks, stored in a plastic bag, completed his traveling wardrobe. The surprisingly numerous dresses, gowns, skirts and blouses he had somehow accumulated over time he fastidiously ignored, and the feminine underthings obviously remained behind.  
As he continued filling his packsack, he considered possibilities. Should he travel Japan, in search of martial instructors? Or better yet, China? If required, he could find work to finance the trip -- though if push came to shove, simply swimming the distance was possible. Not pleasant by any means, but he had done it before, and if necessary, would do so again. His eyes widened: how could he have not thought of it earlier: what else was there to do once in China but return to Jusenkyo? Too long the search for a cure had been put aside by his responsibilities here in Nerima; now that every last connection to this house and little city had been absolved, he could finally be rid of his cursed girl-side.  
He secured the final tie on his backpack. Good. He hefted it and found it light enough for easy travel. One last thing to check. In the bottom drawer of the dresser -- the drawer assigned to him, his father having claimed the ones above -- was stored his small collection of racier female clothing, lingerie, and embarrassing accessories. Digging quickly through the odd accumulation of articles -- an iron corset, a worn yet intact skimpy bunny outfit, his tattered but neatly folded tea-ceremony wedding kimono -- he pulled out a nondescript shoebox stashed at the very back. His intention was to sift through it quickly, yet each item he touched upon forced recollection. A few strands of long, black hair, tied with a shred of yellow ribbon: an early encounter with a rival, a fiancee held close, a bad cut. Ragged piece of cloth: ice and skating and an unwanted kiss, makeshift bandage, unexpected kindness and ministrations. Yellow scarf that closer resembled a fishing net. Iridescent-green dragon- like scale. Picture of curiously cat-like Ranma rubbing nose against a surprised Akane's cheek.  
Junk, all of it.  
Carefully closing the box, he tenderly returned it to its position, replaced the oddities that concealed it, softly closed the drawer, grabbed his bag and hoisted it over his shoulders and turned to leave; and then the door to his room slid open quietly on its railing and Akane was standing there on the threshold with eyes widening with sudden realization, and Ranma knew he had wasted far too much time on pointless reminiscence. In that first moment, eyes locking and full awareness of what Ranma intended dawning upon Akane -- he could tell, he could see it in her face, he knew her at least that well after a year -- he considered simply running away, jumping out the window and making his escape.  
No. No more running. If he had learnt anything this afternoon at school, it was that you could never turn your back on these people. I'm leaving here by choice, not like some thief at night, he told himself. I'm leaving by choice and moving on. Akane stepped into the room, closed the door behind her, and slowly looked around. He watched her take in the details: the open closet, the missing clothes, discarded items on the floor, the pack on his back. Dumb as a stump when it came to P-Chan, he thought, but observant enough when she has to be.  
"You're leaving," she said, eyes still sliding across the room.  
It wasn't really a question.  
"When are you coming back?"  
So maybe she didn't get it after all. He didn't answer.  
Hazel eyes sharply fixed cerulean. "You're not, are you?"  
He shrugged and moved towards the door. Akane blocked the exit.  
"Outta my way, Akane."  
"Or what, you'll hit me?"  
Ranma snorted.  
"Nice show you put on back at school."  
"Wasn't a show." He stared at her for a moment and, realizing she wasn't about to move, turned away.  
"So what if someone had got in your way? What would you have done?"  
"Dunno." Answering over his shoulder, he pulled the curtains aside from the window. "Hit 'em, I guess. Prob'ly regret it after, but, hey, didn't happen, so no worries, right? After all, nobody tried to stop me from leaving, did they? Not the teachers, not the guys -- not even you, Akane." He glanced back at her but found her now standing next to him, pressing down hard on the window frame.  
"They were scared, Ranma. _I_ was scared."  
"D'ya really think I'd ever hurt you, Akane?"  
"You did two nights ago."  
"No, I didn't." He yanked the window open, overcoming her initial resistance to his effort. He took a deep breath of air, then hoisted himself up into a sitting position on the sill. He faced her. "What I did, Akane, was give ya what you've always wanted: I took you seriously for once. Isn't that what you're always goin' on about, how tough you are, you're a martial artist too, you can take it?"  
"That's diff-."  
He cut her off with a glare. "No it's not, and now you know why I never did. One move -- shit, I didn't even apply pressure! -- and now you're whinin' and everybody's callin' me a jerk and an abuser an' worse. I try an' tell 'em otherwise, but no one ever listens. Well I've said I'm sorry already. I've said it so often I'm sick of it. I'm not gonna say it again."  
Akane visibly restrained her anger, and instead offered up an unusually subdued posture, eyes downcast to the floor. When she finally spoke, her voice seemed quiet and nearly timorous. "I didn't say any of that stuff about you, Ranma."  
"Yeah, maybe not." He shrugged. "But you sure as hell didn't speak up at school."  
"Do you think it would've made a difference?"  
"Probably not. Not with those jerks. Woulda meant somethin' to me, though. I was kicking myself, thinkin' I'd hurt you. Not goin' to do that anymore, tho, 'cus I know I didn't."  
"But you did."  
"Yeah. Whatever." He began to turn away, feet raised to clear the window. "I'm outta-."  
"You did hurt me, you jerk!" Now Akane looked up, and her eyes were anything but tame. The front of Ranma's Chinese shirt twisted in her grasp as she grabbed him and hauled him off the window sill. "You did, and it's got nothing to do with your stupid technique! Here, take my wrist -- go ahead, take it! Twist my wrist. Do it. You think that's what this is all about?"  
He pulled his hand free of her grip. "I don't got time for this."  
"Yeah, I'm sure running away has a tight deadline."  
"I'm not running away!"  
"Sure looks like it."  
"I'm moving on."  
"Mo. . . is that what you call it? What, you milked us for all you could, and now it's time to live off another fiancee? Hell, Ranma, why only a year, I'm sure you could've strung us along for at _least_ another six months!"  
"It's not like that!"  
"Then why?"  
"Shit, Akane, isn't it obvious? I know where I'm not wanted."  
"Who are you to judge that?"  
"You want me to stay, then?"  
Silence.  
"Right. I'm gone." Again he headed for the door; again, Akane moved to intercept. With a sigh he threw his pack to the floor and sat on it. "Listen, I'm gettin' really tired of this. If ya got somethin' to say, say it. If you don't want me to stay, then get the hell outta my way."  
She settled into a kneeling position across from him, her back to the sliding door. A deep breath, eyes briefly closed as if to signal a collecting of thoughts, and then she spoke. "I don't want you here. I can't stand seeing you right now. Seeing you almost makes me feel sick. But I don't want you to leave. Not now, not yet, not like this."  
"Heh. And they call _me_ the indecisive one."  
"This isn't a joke!"  
"Oh, it's a joke all right, it's always been one; only now, I'm just getting the punch-line. Think about it, Akane: a macho-jock jerk guy who turns into a _girl_, ain't that the funniest thing you've ever heard? But there's more, 'cus this guy, see, he's got these three girls engaged to him, and. . . ."  
"Ranma."  
"Then there's the guys who love his girl-side, and the guys who hate his guy side, and the guys who want him to stay a girl, and the guys who just want his fiancees."  
"Ranma!"  
"But it's all his fault, of course. Then one day, he thought he'd try and change, you know, make some friends -- but damned if anyone was gonna let _that_ happen. And the punchline, if you didn't get it, is: _that's me_, and my life's a joke." Teeth flashed through his thin-lipped laugh, the gesture bereft of any sense of merriment, and Akane winced at the sound "Why aren't you laughin', Akane? Everyone else does."  
"Stop it!"  
"Why should I?"  
"What's wrong with you, why are you acting like this? This isn't you, Ranma!"  
"So you've got me figured out too, huh, just like everyone else. So what am I, then? Am I the perverted macho jerk everybody says?"  
"You're-."  
He leaned forward, cutting her off with an exaggerated hiss. "It's true! I _am_ a macho jerk." Sitting back again, he shrugged. "But that's okay, 'cus it ain't my fault, it's theirs. I figured that out today, standin' out there on the baseball field, all those girls makin' fun of me and making it quite clear what they thought of me -- thanks, by the way, for standing up for me, I _really_ appreciated that -- and getting me kicked off the team.  
"See, for the longest time, I couldn't figure out why people kept sayin' all that crap about me behind my back. For a year it bugged me and worried me, the insults and gossip and stuff. What was I doing wrong? Don't look at me like that, Akane -- I'm not talking about the obvious, here: the fightin' and fiancees and curse. 'Cus even when things were normal they'd make fun of me. You know what I'm saying, you've heard enough of it, heck, Sayuri and her friends are probably the main source of half that shit."  
She didn't say anything, her slight wince answer enough in itself.  
"For a year, Akane, a _year_! When I wasn't fighting or training or dealing with somethin' weird, it'd eat away at me, worryin' about what was wrong with me. But it ain't me, it ain't never been me; or maybe I oughta say, it's always been me, but those jerks tried to make something outta me that I'm not. You know why? Fear." He chuckled dryly. "Who would've guessed -- that bastard Uehara was right."  
"After today, you wonder why they were afraid of you?" Akane said. "You vindicated every worry they may have had."  
"They erased every doubt I had about them, saying the crap they did about me!"  
"That was a surprise, after getting drunk and acting like an idiot at the party?"  
"I wouldn't have _been_ drunk if you hadn't started that fight!"  
"Me -- I started the fight? You're the one who-."  
"If you'd bother. . . ," he began, then scowled. His blood was pounding, voice steadily raising, face flushed with the intensity of the argument, and the whole scenario sickened him. "No. I won't play this game, Akane, I'm not gonna argue with you. Hell, I wanted to be gone before you even got back from school." He stood up, shouldered his pack once again. "Doesn't matter, I suppose. Just ask yourself this: sure, maybe I acted like an idiot at the party, made a fool of myself -- but did I deserve the bullshit I got today?"  
"You-."  
"Careful, Akane. Did you listen to the rumors, heard what they said? Some were sayin' I like to beat up girls, that I get some kinda sicko thrill outta it. Some said I was buddies with Uehara, that I set the whole thing up. Hell, some guys were sayin' I was just actin' drunk, using it as an excuse to screw around with guys and stuff." His jaw tightened, thick cords of his neck standing out. "So tell me, Akane, did I deserve those kinda lies following me around at school? Did I deserve to be kicked off the sport teams? Did I deserve to have every one I know at that whole fucking school turn on me like that?"  
A long silence in which she matched his angry, cold eyes with an enigmatic gaze of her own, before answering. "No," she half-whispered. "No."  
"Damn straight," he said, stepping past her, yanking the door open.  
"Do you want to know why I didn't say anything?"  
He hesitated, held by her query, one foot past the threshold; held his position but refused to look back.  
"Because I enjoyed seeing your hurt," she said, quickly, almost desperately, it seemed. "Because I wanted you to feel what _I_ felt that night at the party! I wanted you to hurt the way I did -- the way I still do!"  
Ranma slowly turned and reentered the room, silently sliding the door shut behind him. "You what," he asked, very, very softly.  
Akane looked up at him from her position on the floor. "All day, people have been asking me what happened, did we fight, were we really broken up, and why. I never answered them, at least, not directly. I knew that they would take my silence whatever way they wanted, and probably in the worst way possible -- and I didn't really care. I didn't expect things to get so out of hand . . . but probably would have acted the same if I had."  
"Akane, you . . . how could you?"  
He despised how weak his own voice sounded, but a palpable sense of betrayal arose at her words and undercut his previous authority and righteous anger, leaving him feeling off-balance and momentarily vulnerable. The pain, he realized, had been a burgeoning presence within him all morning: her refusal to come to his aid earlier this day had left the seeds of uncertainty within, but her current direct admission staggered him -- how could she be so cruel?  
"I could ask the same question of you," she answered.  
Shaking his head in disbelief, he once again sank into a sitting position across from her. "Me - Me? Do you have _any_ idea what I went through today?"  
"Yeah, Ranma, believe it or not, I think I've got a pretty good idea."  
That she thought she could empathize with the myriad emotions he had undergone this day provoked outrage, even as he tried to accept that she could so callously seek to hurt him. "You -- you don't got no idea, Akane! What I felt -," trust, friendships betrayed; anger, humiliation, pain compounded by confusion; the constant growing stifling greyness that demanded release but with relief ultimately denied, "how could you _possibly_ know?"  
"You really don't get it, do you?"  
"Get? What is there to-."  
"Who the hell do you think you are, Ranma? Is this your world, huh, you think Nerima revolves around you? You corner the market on feeling like shit? Well, guess what, Ranma, big news flash: you're not the only one who's been hurt here!"  
"No way! Not like this, I've put up with a hell of a lot more than -- than you, or Nabiki, or anyone else at that damn school! -- has ever had to deal with." And then, because he refused to keep it in, "And I _never_ go out of my way to hurt others and spread lies like that about 'em!"  
The look of disbelief that overcame Akane would have almost been comical in any other situation. Here and now it simply furthered his annoyance. She recovered quickly. "Never? Never! Ranma, you _always_ go out of your way to hurt others. If you're not insulting your dad, you're picking on poor Ryoga -- don't interrupt me, dammit! -- or beating up Mousse, or insulting my cooking, or the way I dress, or the way I look, act, talk, or. . . everything! First I work out too much, I'm a tomboy, but then I'm too weak, a terrible martial artist. Sure, Ranma, you never insult _anybody_."  
"But-."  
"Let me guess, you're joking," she said. "Guess what, Ranma, once is a joke: after a couple dozen times, it's insulting."  
"Yeah?"  
"Yes."  
"Then I guess you must've really meant it all those times you called me a jerk and a pervert, huh?"  
If she felt any guilt whatsoever, she hid it well; then again, he was doing a fair job of that himself.  
"Whatever, Ranma. I could say that every time I called you those things, you deserved it, but I know you will just turn it around and say the same thing to me. So what's the point?"  
"Yeah."  
Silence.  
"You know, Akane, if you're trying to convince me to stay, you're doing a pretty lousy job of it."  
Akane sighed. "I don't know. Maybe you shouldn't stay. Maybe you're right, you need time away. But not permanently, not forever, not like this, not for something as stupid as today."  
"Why should I come back? What would be the point?" Then, fixing her with a piercing gaze, "Why would you even want me to come back?"  
"Why do you think?"  
"Frankly, Akane, I haven't got a clue, I never have. Way I have it figured, you don't like me and never have, and with good reason: I'm an unwanted perverted sex-changing freak of a fiance who bullies your friends and fools around behind your back, and who's brought nothing but chaos and violence in your life. . . why on earth would you want somebody like that around?"  
"Is that how you think I feel about you?"  
"Pretty much."  
A certain wonderment tinged her voice. "And yet you stayed? Why?"  
"I dunno. Family honor and obligation? Maybe I thought I liked it here in Nerima? Mostly 'cus I didn't want to admit to myself that that's how you felt." He shrugged. "Now I know that's all bullshit. My honor is my own, not my father's, nor Tendo's; Nerima has nothing for me; and as for you, Akane, I think you've made it abundantly clear what you think of me.  
"You. . . hate me, and I'm sorry, so very sorry, I've made your life what must have been a living hell for the past eighteen months. Well, hopefully when I leave, all the crap that came with me will leave too. I'll have to come back to Nerima at some point, I suppose -- I've got stuff to settle with my mom, and Ryoga, and with Ukyou and Shampoo and the Old Ghoul, but I'll make sure to leave the Tendos out of it."  
"And so now, you just leave?"  
"Yup."  
"No."  
"Dammit, Akane! Why the hell won't you let me go?"  
"Because things aren't that simple, you can't run away from this, because I. . . don't hate you, Ranma, I never have. Right now, I don't like you -- but that's not the same thing as hate." She rose from her sitting position and slowly approached him. Her features softened, recalling an incident from not long ago: at the party, soon before she left, exchanging easy banter and a relaxed shared moment. A smile, something so rarely received, it seemed, but all the more precious for it -- would he ever be privy to that aspect of her again?  
She took his hand in hers as he stood there momentarily at a loss. "Ranma, we've lived together and been fiances now for a year-and-a-half. Maybe that's all over now, and I doubt we can ever go back to the way things were before -- but do you want to end what's between us, whatever that may be, like this, in anger?"  
"Akane. . . ."  
"You're right, of course, you need time away. To cool off. But you have to promise me, Ranma, that you'll come back. In a week's time. By Sunday, say."  
"But-."  
"If you come back, and still want to leave, I promise I won't stop you. Think about it, about what you're leaving behind. About what happened. Maybe you'll even understand why I'm hurting too."  
"I don't think I'll ever understand you, Akane."  
Did that secret smile flicker across her lips? "Probably not, Ranma."  
"I have to go now."  
"Do you promise to come back?"  
  
Ranma Saotome awoke to the scent of wild sage wafting on the summer air and the early morning light shimmering through the canopy of leaves, with the echoes of a promise offered fading from his mind. The anger of yesterday -- was it only twenty-four hours ago that everything had gone so wrong? -- had largely dulled, but the possible ramifications of his actions were just beginning to emerge. Could he return to the Tendos' after leaving; could he return to Furinkan after lashing out; would either of them accept him back? The temptation to simply never find out, never return, was very real, yet the promise Akane had extracted from him (so easily, it seemed, why had he capitulated so quickly to her request?) seemed to exclude that possibility. The full implications of yesterday's conversation with her were yet beyond him: how had he hurt her, and if so badly, why did she want him to return; and why the unexpected tenderness at the end?  
As he rose from his makeshift bed, he cast such thoughts from his mind. Now was the time to train, and to eat as well, he realized, his stomach grumbling loudly. Stretching to work the night's knots out from his back, he walked deeper into the forest, martial patterns and training techniques filling his thoughts. All other concerns he could address later -- in a week's time.  
  
******  
  
The mental shade of the night's dream (resplendent with intimations of red, pungent scents, hurt mewling) faded rapidly, giving way to the now-familiar worry tightening her stomach as Akane Tendo awoke. This time, however, that concern was quickly supplanted by a sense of relaxation not known for several months. Despite the risk to her morning schedule, and repeated calls by her eldest sister to wake up, Akane remained buried snugly beneath the bed sheets, basking in the suffusive peace that warmed her body. The faintest of smiles played across her lips. At last.  
Eventually necessity drove her to full wakefulness, and she grudgingly swung her legs out of bed. A luxurious stretch and full yawn, then she threw the curtains wide and allowed the sunlight to beam in, setting her room aglow in amber softness. As she traded pyjamas for her school uniform, her mind wandered forward over the day's activities: breakfast, school -- one test, in English, but nothing to worry about -- and then drama club after classes. Following that. . . she was free, free to do whatever she liked, maybe visit a kissaten with a friend, take in a movie, or simply walk the length of a shopping arcade and take in the sights. It was with a smile that she made final adjustments to her uniform, picked up her bookbag, and strolled downstairs.  
A still-sleepy Nabiki was the first to confront her, still blinking blearily through half-closed eyes. "Gee, aren't we happy this morning," she said, sounding grumpy in the face of such cheerfulness.  
"Why shouldn't I be? It's a beautiful day."  
"Guess you haven't heard."  
Akane's smile took on a strained aspect. "What?"  
"Seems that our houseguest took off yesterday, after his little display at school."  
Akane took some pleasure in watching the slightly-malicious smirk on her sister's lips disappear as her own smile returned in full strength. "Oh, that -- I already knew."  
"You-."  
"I had a big talk with Ranma yesterday, told him he should take some time away, go on a training trip or something." Akane brushed by her older sister. "He'll be back in exactly one week."  
"One week?"  
"Yup. I made him promise."  
Akane moved on toward the kitchen, exulting in her victory. Even her cynical sister had not been able to ruin the giddiness that still filled her.  
"Yeah, after last weekend, we know how much that's worth," muttered Nabiki as she mounted the stairs, her words just loud enough to be overheard. "He's probably just trying to skip out on our deal, the cheat."  
A less buoyant Akane determinedly entered the dining room, where she was immediately accosted by the household's two adults -- or, to be more accurate, the two eldest men on the premises -- or more accurate yet, one man and a panda.  
"Oh, my poor daughter," wailed her father, "your fiance has disappeared!"  
Where is that ungrateful son of mine, asked the panda in sign language.  
"What will become of the dojo?"  
Lazy brat, skipping out on practice!  
"You must find him, Akane!"  
He stole my backpack!  
"He might be in trouble!"  
Made a mess of my room, too.  
"Saotome?"  
Tendo?  
"Why are you still a panda? Your wife left yesterday morning."  
!, exclaimed the sign, before being tossed aside as the bear lumbered upstairs.  
Gritting her teeth, Akane pointedly ignored the pair and sat at the table, at which point Kasumi emerged from the kitchen carrying breakfast.  
"Good morning!" said the eldest sister, offering a smile that immediately helped to restore Akane's spirits.  
"Morning, Kasumi! Mmmm, smells delicious, what is it?"  
"Well, I thought Ranma might be feeling a little depressed after his mother's visit, so I cooked his favorite -- a bacon omelette, thin and light and made with duck's eggs, just the way he likes it -- but it would seem that he is not here this morning." The smallest of frowns creased her brow. She's probably upset that her little gift can't be properly received, Akane thought. Especially since I don't like pork -- the only reason that jerk likes this stupid breakfast is because he knows I don't, he just likes to taunt P-Chan with it. The grip on her chopsticks whitened her knuckles.  
"Mrs. Saotome's visit must have been harder on him than usual," continued her sister.  
"Hmmm, yes, he did remain 'Ranko' for quite some time," added her father.  
"Although he plays the part very well."  
"Yes. Slightly worrisome, that."  
"Too bad there really isn't a Ranko. Wouldn't that be fun? Maybe we should make a copy of Ranma!"  
"Ha ha ha! Very original, Kasumi!"  
"Do you know where he is, Akane?"  
"Yes, daughter, did he mention anything before leaving?"  
She slowly counted to five before answering. "He's gone on a training trip," she said, making of each statement a declaration. "He'll be back in a week. He promised." None too delicately, she returned her plate, food hardly sampled, back to the table. "I have to go. I don't want to be late for school."  
Without another word, she left the house.  
  
"Hey, Akane! Sis, wait up!"  
Akane stopped in her determinedly meandering walk to allow Nabiki to catch up. There really was no need to hurry, of course, since she had left home so early. Instead she had stopped at every distraction she could justify, wishing good-morning to passing junior-graders, and even pausing to talk to the old woman who washed the sidewalk every morning. Her name was Himiko, Akane had discovered, and had enquired about the whereabouts of the nice young man -- or was that young girl? -- that always walked with her. She wanted to apologize for accidentally splashing him -- or was that her? -- so often. The youngest Tendo's mood was steadily diminishing.  
"You sure took off in a hurry this morning," said Nabiki, pausing between words to reclaim her breath.  
"Yeah, I guess."  
"You forgot your stuff."  
"Damn!"  
"Here, I brought it."  
"Oh, thanks." She accepted the offered school bag and resumed walking, falling in next to her sister.  
"Gee, don't act _too_ grateful, now."  
"How much?"  
"Aw, forget it, it's a freebie. Just this once."  
"Really?"  
"Yup."  
"I don't suppose you brought lunch, too?"  
"Nope."  
"Guess I'll have to buy it at school."  
"Some things never change, eh?"  
"Excuse me?"  
"C'mon sis, you were always forgetting stuff back in junior high, and either Kasumi or I had to chase after you with it. Your books, your bag. . . your uniform!"  
"Hey, it wasn't my fault if I was late because of Dad's kempo lessons. . . you know, I kinda wish Furinkan served lunches the way junior high did, at least then I didn't have to worry about forgetting it."  
"I don't. School lunches suck, and I didn't trust other kids handling my food. If I remember, you weren't even allowed to serve. . . something always happened between them preparing the food, and you scooping it out. How many kids were sick that one time?"  
"Hey!" Akane gave her sister a mock shove, frown undermined by the twitching of her mouth. "Like you said, the food tasted terrible, I just wanted to liven it up a little."  
"Ha!"  
"Beside, it got me out of lunch duty. If I remember, you were even jealous."  
"Only 'cus you stole the idea from me!"  
Laughing, and relaxing into simple chatter, the two sisters continued on their way to school. Akane felt her earlier mood returning, and had to admit surprise that Nabiki would be the source of her happiness. But then again, why not? Her sister, despite the many rumors to the contrary, wasn't entirely the money-hungry heartless manipulative extortionist many made her out to be. Certainly, she was a little of all those at times, and sometimes she could be downright mean -- but she was also her sister, and they had shared many a close moment, often on this very path.  
"When was the last time we walked to school together, Akane?"  
"I was just wondering the same thing."  
"We used to do this every day."  
"Yeah."  
"We used to talk about everything and anything."  
"I kinda miss that."  
"Won't happen again very often. Another month, and I'm done with this place."  
Akane stopped in her tracks. "You -- that's right, entrance exams are coming up. I don't know how, but it never really occurred to me. . . you're graduating!"  
"Yeah, imagine that."  
"How could I have. . . ?"  
"It's been a busy year for you. No big deal."  
"Are you ready? Worried?"  
"Honestly? Absolutely terrified."  
"Really?"  
"Yeah. Of falling asleep during the test. This stuff's a breeze. I could've passed those exams at the _beginning_ of this grade, let alone now. This last year of school would've been dreadfully boring without Ranma to spice it up a. . . oopsie, wrong thing to say, huh?"  
"No, it's nothing," answered Akane through her grimace. "Please, go on."  
"Akane, my dear sister, you are many things, but a master of subtlety you are not. It's Ranma, right?"  
"It's. . . yes, it _is_ him, dammit! Can't I go for more than five minutes without hearing his stupid name? He's not even here! He's all anyone ever talks about!"  
Nabiki nodded, then checked her watch. "Listen, sis, thanks to your storming off this morning, we're still way early. I heard Kasumi worrying about you -- you skipped breakfast, right? Let's stop at the Mister Donut, it's on me. I think we need to have a talk, sister to sister."  
  
The sigh she released was fatalistic at best, and the gaze that peered into the inky depths of her coffee was utterly despondent. To be expected to attend school while in the midst of such sorrow, thought Hiromi, how could her parents be so unreasonable? Didn't her mother realize that, just last night, she and Kokichi had broken up. . . again? She felt like dying, the pain so real, the heartbreak so palpable, and it was with another deep sigh that she wiped an errant tear from her eye. Her coffee offered no advice, her doughnut little solace, and she wondered how anyone could expect her to survive this day, bereft and oh so alone, as she now was.  
Of course, going to school today held a certain attraction, if only to see the fallout from yesterday's Ranma debacle. No one had expected him to freak out like that, and it reinforced her belief that the guy was both weird and dangerous. She wondered if Kokichi would've done the honorable thing, would have stepped forward in her defense had the martial artist turned on her, and sacrificed himself so that she might escape unharmed. Such heroism, so romantic and brave -- the stupid wimp would never do that. The bruises from his last encounter with Ranma were still fresh on his neck, after all.  
"Welcome!" chimed the Mr. Donut girl behind the counter.  
"Yeah. One coffee, and a -- what do you want, Akane? -- and a hot cocoa, and two honey glazed. Hey, don't worry, sis, I'll cover it, just don't expect me to make a habit of it."  
"Thanks."  
Hiromi broke out of her melancholic musings as the two Tendo sisters slid into the booth behind her. Interesting. Everyone had been wondering, yesterday after school, where Ranma had gone and if Akane had followed him, and the speculations about what happened ranged from the two enjoying a simple conversation, to the two making up and consummating their love in a frenzied coupling of amorous affection. Daisuke had offered his usual 'evil-prince-and-kidnaping' theory, but no one took that seriously anymore. Here was a chance for the inside scoop. She put aside her cooling coffee, hunkered down in the seat, and cast an attentive ear toward the conversation.  
"So. Ranma," started Nabiki.  
"Yeah." Akane's reply was only a step above a growl.  
"A little bitter, are we?"  
"No. Well, a little. Yes."  
"He really pissed you off at the party, didn't he? Normally you get over his crap quicker than this."  
"That's just it!" exclaimed the younger sister. "It's not that! Or at least, that's just a part of it, the latest, and, yes, biggest part of it, maybe, but still only a part. The fight we had, have been having over the last few days, it's not just because of a single weekend. It's been a year-and-a-half coming!"  
"Well, duh, I could have told you that."  
"What?"  
"Hey, I've already given you my opinion of your dear ex-fiance. I told you he was 'wishy-washy, and careless, and insensitive, and stupid, and cheap,' and I maintain that truer words have yet to be spoken. You did the right thing dumping him at that time, and, really, it's no big loss if you ditch him now."  
"Wow. You really do hate him."  
"Hate him? Not at all. I actually kinda like the clod. Beneath the macho jock exterior, he's a pretty nice guy -- never tell him I said that, by the way -- but you can do _so_ much better, sis."  
"Oh."  
"Let's face it, since the day a panda arrived carrying a certain red- haired girl over its shoulder and stepped through our doorway, you and she haven't exactly gotten along."  
"That's because he's been annoying me since he forced his way into our house!"  
"Right. And you've fought, and fought, and the anger built up and finally boiled over, and eventually you'd break up with him and kill the engagement. I mean, how many time has it happened? Three, four? Mr. No- Backbone even ended up engaged to me at one point. Yet, here we are, a year-and-a-half since he arrived, and until two days ago, the two of you were still fiances."  
"Family honor, Nabiki. You know that. I never had a choice."  
"Obviously you did. Family honor or not, this time you don't seem so willing to go back to the way things were before."  
"It's different this time. Ranma went too far."  
"Ah, that's what I wanted to know. What he did do to make you so angry?"  
"Come on, Nabiki, you've already heard it all at school. You know what happened."  
"I learnt long ago not to trust second-hand witnesses, sis. I've heard a lot of different stories from a lot of different people: some is obvious bullshit, some has the truth buried in there somewhere. . . but none are the whole truth. Only two people can give me that, and wonder-boy isn't here right now."  
There was a hesitant pause, in which Hiromi surreptitiously slurped down the last of her coffee, before Akane answered.  
"Why are you so eager to help me, Nabiki?"  
"You asked me for advice first, remember?"  
"Actually, you offered."  
"Semantics. Is it so hard to believe I'm expressing sisterly concern?"  
"Yes."  
"You wound me."  
"More likely, you're just looking for the 'authoritative version' of last weekend to sell at lunch."  
Nabiki's laugh rang clear across the donut shop. "Ha! You're learning, sis!"  
Hiromi heard shuffling sounds, and risked a peek around the bench. The younger Tendo sister, face flushing with anger, was in the midst of standing and looked ready to leave.  
"Thanks for the love, Nabiki," said Akane, turning away.  
"Oh, sit down, and lose the wounded act. Would you rather have rumors flying around your head all week, or have the truth settle things down?"  
"I don't need you for that, I can tell people myself!"  
"Akane, Akane, my poor naive little sister, you think people are going to believe you? People aren't just talking about him anymore, you know, they're gossiping about you, too."  
"What?"  
Akane sat down quickly. Hiromi sat back into her seat. She hoped they hurried up, otherwise they would all be late for school!  
"Well, gee, sis, you sure took off after your 'ex'-fiance pretty quick yesterday, especially considering how you completely ignored him otherwise. Gets people thinking, you know? What happened, they wonder, where are they off too? Did they just have a nice, pleasant conversation? Or something far more sordid?"  
"We just talked! We just talked!"  
How disappointing, thought Hiromi. She rather liked the sordid alternative.  
"Oh, I know that, but they don't. And since you're involved in these rumors, no one is going to accept anything you say, especially when it's something as boring as the truth."  
"But they'll believe you?"  
"But of course! I'm Nabiki Tendo, the ever-reliable, objective source of information: my morals lie with the flow of hard currency, never with anything as fallible and intangible as shifting schoolyard allegiances and popularity contests. People know I speak the truth, even when it concerns my own family -- I charge triple when it's family."  
"You're sick, you know that?"  
"I've said it before and I'll say it again: 'I'm a slave to money'. So how about giving me the exclusive interview? What _really_ went down at Kiyoshi's party? What really happened yesterday afternoon between you and everybody's ex-favorite Casanova?"  
Another lengthy pause. Hiromi checked her watch again.  
"We'll be late if I start at the beginning."  
"I'm stricken by sadness at his departure. How can I be expected to attend school in such a state?"  
"But I feel fine!"  
"Believe me, sis, you're stricken too."  
"Oh."  
"So," said Nabiki. "Shall we begin?"  
  
Only after several donuts, coffees, and hot chocolates did the full story emerge, and only after a number of piercing questions was Nabiki satisfied with Akane's retelling; at which point the younger sibling left for school, while the elder remained to 'put her notes in order,' as she put it, and settle the bill.  
Smiling slightly, Nabiki ran through her mental chronology of the weekend's party, filling in the gaps that Akane's version made clear, adjusting for her sister's anger-skewed perspective, noting curious holes she left uncovered, wiping away information now made redundant or otherwise proven fraudulent. In a way, it was more fun than actually attending the event. This way, she could sift through the entirety of the evening, partake in any of myriad interlaced plots, examine the tight weave of high school dynamics and enjoy any particular thread at her leisure. Oh, certainly, actually being there was fun as well, and last year's party was a night she would remember fondly forever -- but one got so involved, so caught up with one's own affairs and immediate situation, that it was easy to lose sight of the big picture.  
Nabiki loved the big picture.  
Vertices, nodes, ties, lines, threads, connections: how much of Furinkan was contained within her mental construction of that single night? Connections reached out, ensnared other schools -- Tomoboki, Furunerima, St. Hebereke -- split, spread, intertwined, looped back: how much of the teen population of Nerima could she now trace: could she place a finger lightly against their collective pulse and know their story?  
An anthology, really, though an incomplete one; for even her knowledge of it, Nabiki grudgingly admitted, was far from total. Nor would it ever be even remotely comprehensive, the beginning reaching too far back, too many causes for each event, the ending yet to be written and always so very far away. Yet at times even an approximation would do, and Nabiki could still enjoy so many individual aspects of the whole, knowing each was a potential source of both knowledge and currency. At times, the two were virtually interchangeable. She felt something akin to grief, knowing she would be leaving all this behind when she left for college.  
For now, as she drank the last of her caffeine breakfast, she contemplated the narratives of the players foremost in her interest: Hiroshi, Hiroshi and Sayuri, Sayuri and her girlfriends; those friends and the guys, the guys and Hiroshi, Hiroshi and Daisuke, Daisuke and Ryuta Uehara; Uehara and Ranma. . . .  
Ranma Saotome and Akane Tendo: throughout everyone else's interwoven threads pierced a string that belonged to those two only. Certainly, the tapestry could exist without, and had done so for many years before the intrusion of that new element: but the jagged, disruptive addition of that single foreign detail was the artist's masterstroke that threw the entire work into perspective and rescued it from unforgivable blandness. Remove that stroke and the rest, though still strong and durable and of noteworthy complexity, might as well be tossed aside.  
With Ranma gone, Furinkan would once again become average and dull, of that Nabiki was certain. How long before Nerima followed, all the Amazons, magics, chefs, princes, demons, warriors, and lunatics fading back to their manic fringes and frayed corners? Her sister's ex-fiance might be an idiot, but he was fun, and his 'secret-techniques' were a hoot.  
She'd miss them; she'd miss him. Nabiki doubted strongly that, even with his promise, Ranma would ever return -- or if he did, that he would remain long. There was no longer any reason to stay. Akane, the only real tie he had to the city, would never allow things to return to their previous state, of that Nabiki was sure. If she understood the situation properly, her little sister had proven capable of surprisingly complex feelings and motivations, even if not consciously fully realized: old emotions had been superseded by newer freedoms and subtler impulses, and perhaps even a little growing up had been achieved in the last few days. Depending on the decisions Akane made in the next few days, there could possibly no longer be room for the pigtailed boy upon his return. This made the final insistence on Ranma's return ring false: why bother? A final grasping onto the way things had been?  
Ultimately pointless, of course. Ranma, she suspected, had done his fair share of growing up in the last few days as well. The boy who had defied an entire school and torn the door off her locker was not one who would forgive or forget easily -- who would submit, for instance, to embarrassing lingerie photo shoots at the slightest threat, anymore. Unfortunate, really, she'd miss that income and those sessions. The guy was too nice for his own good, and it was time he learnt that. In his place, she would have told everyone (including herself) off long ago. . . and extorted them all into poverty soon after.  
On the matter of extortion. . . .  
"Hey, Hiromi, how's it going back there? Little late for class?"  
Short pause.  
"Na- Nabiki?"  
"Let me guess, in mourning for Kokichi, right?"  
"Ah. . . ."  
"Let's talk. There's a few things I'd like to teach you, such as 'exclusive storytelling rights,' 'copyright infringement,' and 'eavesdropping fees.' C'mon over, I'll buy you a coffee. Let's make that a decaf, you look a little jumpy."  
  
The fervor that underscored lunch that day at Furinkan high excluded Hiroshi. Sitting on the sidelines, he wanted nothing to do with it, and the attitude prevalent among his friends and peers left him feeling sick. He left himself feeling sick. A victim of his own cowardice and lack of conviction, he wished to somehow go back one single day and do things over again. Perhaps it would have made a difference.  
He's not coming back.  
Akane came today, but Ranma never showed up.  
Why should he?  
There are no friends for him here, he told himself. You proved that all too well yesterday. Even if it had not made a difference, at least it would have shown Ranma that not everybody believed the crap going around about him. But you stayed silent, and why? Because you didn't want to stick out; didn't want to risk insulting your girlfriend; didn't want to associate yourself with a loser. Didn't, didn't, didn't. . . you didn't do the right thing, and the only loser here is yourself.  
"Yo, 'Roshi, are you, like, in there somewhere?"  
Startled from his musings, he looked up to see Daisuke sitting down next to him. "Sorry. Just thinking."  
"Gee, really? Hadn't noticed, what with you ignoring me calling you across the field for the last five minutes."  
"Oh." Hiroshi offered up a sheepish, apologetic grin.  
"No prob, bud. Let me guess, Ranma, right?"  
"Mostly."  
"Yeah, I wonder where she's at?"  
The look the black-haired boy received was nearly disbelieving. "Where's she at? Don't you get it, Dai? He's not coming back!"  
"Of course she is. Why wouldn't she?"  
"Why wouldn't -- c'mon, man, the way people treated him, why _would_ he come back?"  
"Well, duh, 'cuz she's still just a student, like the rest of us. She's gotta finish school, right? She's needs a home, doesn't she? And, last but definitely not least, there's Akane. . . ."  
"And Akane wants nothing to do with him. Ranma doesn't need a school or a home, Dai, that's one thing I figured out this weekend. If there's anything he needs, maybe, it's friends -- and there's none of those here, so why come back?"  
"Hey! We're her friends!"  
"Yeah, sure. Great friends."  
Silence settled between them as they began to eat, onigiri systematically falling before lunchtime cravings. He watched his peers as they played games during the brief free time between lunch and cleaning period. Games, baseball, volleyball, soccer, stupid meaningless ignorant games, as if nothing had happened, as if they weren't responsible -- as if they _all_ weren't responsible for possibly destroying a man the day before. Nothing had happened.  
I did nothing, he whispered to himself. But what could I do?  
"Yen for your thoughts, buddy."  
"One yen? One crummy yen? Yeah, I guess you're right, that's about all I'm worth right now."  
"Ouch."  
"Sorry. Still pissed off about the whole Ranma thing."  
"Take it easy on yourself, man. There's nothing you could've done."  
"That's not true, and you know it."  
"Fine. Nothing that would've made a difference."  
"To him. To myself, maybe."  
"She wouldn't have noticed. And you'd still be depressed."  
"Shut up!"  
"With good reason. I'm going to miss her."  
"You're just going to miss her body, you perv!"  
"Heh! So says pervert number two."  
"Whatever."  
Hiroshi put his lunch aside and leaned back in the grass. What would happen, now that Ranma was gone? He supposed life at Furinkan would return to normal. . . would he? Somehow, he felt he had touched upon something special, scratched the surface of an entirely different world. No. Not a different world, but simply a divergent way of living and perceiving it. There were alternatives, he now suspected, to the expected routines: school, college, salaryman, death was one possibility; dropping out and pointless rebellion another; but then Ranma seemed set on a different path, defined by his own passions, desires, and uncaring of whether others had trod the road before him -- his steps making the way fresh anew.  
That was Ranma, but he was only Hiroshi, whose life had until only recently been bereft of martial arts, duels to the death, ancient artifacts, and powerful rivals. How could he expect to live up to that standard? Confined within the realities of his own life, the room to maneuver, defy boundaries -- to be the central player, instead of the comic relief, simply did not exist. Likely, he would always fall within the limits of the expected, the normal, the dull.  
"Looks like something's interesting happening over there. Nabiki promised an update on the Ranma situation, bet that's probably it. Better rush over and get myself a copy before they sell out," intruded Daisuke. The dark-haired youth, staring off towards the central schoolyard, began to stand.  
"I think I'm going to dump Sayuri."  
"What!"  
"I think we're through."  
"Shit -- that's unexpected."  
Hiroshi smiled.  
"You're giving up a lot."  
"Not as much as you think."  
"Bullshit. Where to start? Well, first, there's the obvious: her breasts, followed closely by her ass."  
"Hey!"  
"Then there's the popularity factor: we're losers, 'Roshi, and you hooking up with her has lifted you into a whole new echelon of chicks, man. Dude, I urge you to reconsider, I've hooked my wagon to your star. . . I don't wanna be a loser again!"  
"Get a grip."  
"Did I mention her breasts?"  
"That's my girlfriend you're talking about there!"  
"What about the sex?"  
"What sex?" exclaimed Hiroshi. "You know we haven't. . . ."  
"Yeah, but you're getting there, I saw you at the party."  
"You didn't see anything," he insisted, yet blushed.  
"You don't know what you're missing."  
"And you do?"  
"Ah. . . ."  
"Anyway, she's been pissing me off with this whole anti-Ranma crusade. I don't get it, but I don't think I can just ignore it. He's a friend, right? Didn't we once swear we'd never let a girl get between our friendship?"  
Daisuke laughed. "We were both single losers! It was an easy promise to make. You know damn well we were both ready to stab each other in the back, first sign of an interested chick."  
"But-."  
"You just got a girlfriend first, you lucky bastard!"  
"That's not. . . okay, you're right, you've got me pegged." Hiroshi chuckled. "But things have changed. Having a girl isn't everything."  
"Sure. Very convincing. You've tasted the manna, man, you think you can go back to living on bread and water? You can't do it. I'm even willing to bet on it. By the end of this week, you'll still be blissfully dating Sayuri, whether you want to or not. You don't have the balls to break off with her!"  
"Do so! I'll be single by Friday!"  
"Shake on it?"  
"Deal!"  
"Deal!"  
A moment later, Hiroshi felt profoundly stupid, wondering how he could've bet on something so infantile. How shallow could one get? It tainted the profundity of the moment in which he had first made the decision to break up with her -- a moment in which, if only briefly, he had felt the first phantom step on a unique path . He was spared further introspection, however, by an unexpected intrusion.  
"Well well, who do we have here?"  
The voice, coming as it did from behind and close, with no signs of approach having been given, both surprised them and filled them with instant dread. Turning as one, they saw Ryuta Uehara emerge from the bush behind them, tall as ever, perpetual dangerous glint to his dark eye, grinning wickedly. Aside for two small bandages forming an 'x' centered on his forehead, he seemed otherwise none the worse for wear. Somehow, on him, the Furinkan boy's uniform seem designed for brawling, edges frayed and seams stretched. Whereas the jacket made most boys seem either formal or stifled, it simply looked cool stretched too-taut across his chest, cuffs rolled back and flared, collar flipped up but front unbuttoned beyond school policy. Raking calloused fingers through lanky blond hair, the Furinkan youth took a step -- Hiroshi could only interpret it as threatening -- towards the pair. The pop of cracking knuckles sounded ominously in the air  
"Hi and Dai, right? How. . . nice, to see you two again."  
Hiroshi backpedaled away before scrambling to his feet, trying to maintain a safe distance from the bully. "Um, er, listen," he offered.  
"Yeah, heh, ah," suppled Daisuke.  
"So, where's your protector, huh? Where's that pervo freak-bag Saotome? Him and I hafta have words."  
"You, ah, haven't heard?" Did I just say that, wondered Hiroshi.  
Ryuta turned towards the source. "I just got here. Heard what?"  
"He's, ah, that is, Ranma's not here. Ummm, I don't think he's ever coming back."  
Unexpectedly, Ryuta looked disappointed. "What? Why the hell not?"  
"Weren't you here yesterday?"  
"No."  
"Oh, ah. . . ."  
"You got a problem with that?"  
"No no!"  
"What happened?"  
Hiroshi's account of yesterday's taunting, once the nervous tics, swallows, and pauses were removed, was by necessity remarkably brief. Ryuta's reaction, again, was unexpected: he laughed.  
"Ha! I told him, didn't I?" he said. "Didn't I tell him?"  
"Umm, er-."  
"Oh, relax, I'm not gonna beat you up. Hell, I'll even apologize if it'll make you feel better. I was drunk at the party, 'kay? Alcohol makes me kinda nuts, you know? I do all kinda crap I regret later, or can't even remember. I didn't mean half that shit I said."  
"Ah. Oh."  
"Hey, I said relax! Do I hafta pound you to get the point across?"  
Hiroshi took a deep breath.  
"Well, this sucks. Got a tough fight comin' up this aft', was kinda hoping Saotome might show me that kung-fuey shit he flattened me with." He shrugged. "Ah well, guess I'll rely on the old 'boot to da head,' huh? See ya around, chumps."  
They watched the larger boy leave.  
"Man, I'm sure glad he didn't kill us," said Daisuke.  
His friend whole-heartedly agreed.  
  
The day had gone surprisingly well.  
Akane acknowledged this as she made her way toward the drama club. Having expected unending questions, she had been mostly left to herself; anticipating rumors and whispers, they had all been quickly laid to rest by Nabiki's lunchtime sales. A few unavoidable problems had arisen to be dealt with -- a visit to the vice-principal's office, to explain her tardiness and Ranma's absence; a make-up test for the one she had missed; Tatewaki Kuno -- but for the most part, life had seemed nearly. . . normal.  
Quiet, even.  
It perturbed her, to a certain degree, that so few people had talked with her this day. With Ukyou absent, she had eaten lunch alone; between classes she only received the most cursory of greetings and farewells; and everywhere, a veneer of artificial politeness from her peers seemed to confront her. She could only assume that things had moved too quickly for people to immediately adjust, and that, for now, she existed in a sort of limbo state. The social dynamics should readjust themselves soon, she hoped, and perhaps once people accepted her again as 'Akane Tendo, second grade, single, youngest-sister, likes martial arts,' as opposed to 'Ranma Saotome's fiancee,' perhaps life would return to the way it had been nearly two full years ago.  
Turning the corner to the drama classroom, she came across Sayuri and Hiromi sitting by the door, talking. The latter started at her arrival, but the former merely offered a large, welcoming smile, smoothing back her brown ponytail as she stood from the single chair by the door.  
"Akane!"  
Akane smiled in return. "Sayuri. Hiromi. What's going on?"  
"Nothing much. Hiromi was just leaving, right?"  
"Er, yeah," said the girl, scrambling to her feet. "Hafta get home. Call Kokichi. Later!"  
The girl scampered off, a rather bemused Akane watching her retreat.  
"Shouldn't she stay for drama?"  
"Guess you haven't heard," said Sayuri. "It's been cancelled for today."  
"Really?"  
"Well, we are sort of short a leading guy, now. They're holding an emergency male audition."  
It had become such a commonplace occurrence for Ranma to worm his way into any male role opposite Akane (despite the fact that, strictly speaking, he wasn't even a part of the club), on the off-chance that the play involved a kiss, that it had never even occurred to her that his departure would rob the club of its masculine lead. Not that he ever kissed her, of course, but no one else would, either, and even understudies were scared away by his implied threats. Despite the failure of the club to successfully perform a romance play as scripted in the past two years, they nevertheless always accepted Ranma's unofficial involvement: he drew a great crowd, staged excellent fight-scenes, the real-life tension between him and Akane made for great on-stage drama, and in a pinch he could easily be substituted into any minor female role as needed.  
"Hey Akane, why don't we go check out a movie instead?"  
The idea appealed to her. When was the last time she had seen a movie without it being somehow disrupted or ruined by her ex-fiance?  
"There's that new horror film," suggested Sayuri.  
Akane shook her head. "I'm not too big on horror. I've seen enough real ghosts and goblins to last me a lifetime."  
"What about a romance?"  
"You're kidding, right?"  
"Well, what then?"  
"I dunno. How about some action?"  
Sayuri sighed. "Let me guess, martial arts."  
The movie, however, had several hours to go before beginning, and so they stopped by Sayuri's house to pass the time. Though not as large as the Tendo household, it was nevertheless quite spacious, and sacrificed both yard and dojo for extra living room. Nor was it as sparsely decorated, exhibiting an expensive if somewhat Western taste. Her friend's father, Akane remembered, was quite the successful businessman, often busy and away but very generous with the money. Climbing the sharply polished stairs that led to Sayuri's bedroom, Akane saw none of the scuffs and scars and patches that a century-long history of combat had left upon her own house.  
"It seems like forever since you've been here, Akane."  
"A long time."  
"It's too bad, really. You've missed out on a lot of good times: some great sleep overs, get-togethers, and parties."  
"I know."  
"But not anymore, right?"  
"I. . . guess not."  
"Of course not! Why would you? Now that _he's_ gone, you can start doing normal things again."  
Akane sighed. "He is coming back, you know."  
"So? You're through with him, right?" Stopping, Sayuri turned to her friend and fixed her with the most serious of stares. "You _are_ through with him? You're not thinking of engaging yourself to him again, are you?" The horror expressed in her voice made it clear what she thought of that idea.  
"Of course not!"  
"Then you're free of him."  
"There's still the family engagement. If he still feels responsible, he might end up married to one of my sisters."  
"Then I pity your sisters, but better them than you." Grabbing her by the hand, Sayuri led Akane into her bedroom. "C'mon, let's get changed for the movie. I've got some great new clothes, and I bet they'd look great on you, too!"  
Soon after, Akane found herself kneeling in her friend's spacious bedroom, piles of clothing growing before her and awaiting inspection. Akane knew a thing or two about clothes; she had quite the sizable wardrobe herself; but for a moment, she felt overwhelmed by the flurry of fabrics, colors, and styles. She didn't know where to begin.  
"Hey, Akane, snap out of it!" Her friend knelt next to her, a tie- dyed minidress draped over one arm. "You okay?"  
"Yes. Yes, I'm fine." She fingered the dress. "Umm, I don't think so. A little too daring for me."  
"Ha! If you don't take a few risks, you'll never attract the guys."  
Akane scowled. "The _last_ thing I'm interested in right now is a boyfriend."  
"Yeah, I guess so. Must be tough coming out of a year-and-a-half relationship."  
"Rela. . . he was _not_ my boyfriend!"  
"But you two were together for so long."  
"We were engaged by our parents -- it wasn't by choice!"  
"But wasn't it just so romantic?"  
"Romantic -- that twit wouldn't know romance if it kicked him in the head!"  
"Right!"  
"Yeah!"  
"Feel better?" Sayuri was all smiles.  
"I. . . hey!"  
"And the point of all that," elaborated the brown-haired girl, "was to get you to stop moping. Tonight, you're going to forget the last few days ever happened. You're free of that jerk, Akane, it's time to reenter the real world."  
For a short while, at least, Akane almost felt like she could forget the last few days and pretend to be a normal teenage girl spending time with a friend. She tried on many outfits. Talked and laughed. Looked in the mirror. Killed time.  
The moment could not last.  
How weak she seems, she found herself thinking at one point, as Sayuri slipped out of a tight, long-sleeved top. Her arms are so thin, look how her collarbone stands out, does she even have any muscle-tone? Look at her pull that box down from the closet, she's struggling with the weight. I've picked up _boulders_ three times the size without straining. Look at those boots she's wearing. The platform must be at least ten centimeters, she can hardly walk in them. What if she got into a fight? Then she thought, what's wrong with me, who cares how strong she is, why should she get into a fight, what does it matter? A year ago I never noticed these kind of things.  
A year ago, however, she had not seen the massive and wonderful animals of Ryugenzawa, padding lithely through the deep forest, nor the eight-headed Orochi of legend rising from its watery depths. She had never heard of the Musk dynasty and its fearsome dragon-blooded heritage. The Hiryu Shoten-Ha and its awesome destructive power had still been a secret, unseen, unfelt. Now? She had witnessed and lived them all, and the memory of those events contributed a disjointedness and surreality to her current activities. Sitting in another girl's room, trying on clothes in preparation to walk a mall, chattering on about everything, anything. . . nothing, really -- it all seemed somehow insignificant compared to the experiences Ranma had shown her.  
That's not fair, she told herself angrily. This is what I am, too: an ordinary teenaged girl. Wide brown eyes, short black hair, small nose; average height, maybe a little on the muscular side, but nothing unusual; black skirt, oversized socks, blue mini-T with a corporate white swish centered over the swell of normal-sized breasts: in what way did this reflected image deny that she was in any way different from millions of other Japanese girls? How many stood just as she did at this very moment, before a mirror in contemplation?  
How many wished to be anything _but_ normal?  
I should go home, she thought.  
"It must have hurt," intruded a voice.  
Akane started from her unseeing contemplation of the mirror to find herself lightly rubbing the wrist of her right hand.  
"Is that what you were thinking of?" asked Sayuri.  
Akane forced a small laugh. "What, my wrist? No, no, it's okay. Ranma didn't really hurt me. I'm tougher than that."  
"That's not what I meant."  
"Oh?"  
"The betrayal," said Sayuri, and took the wrist gently in her hands. "For so long, he was always there, always protecting you. Of all the boys you knew, he was the only one who would never, ever, hurt you. No matter what happened."  
"Yes," Akane whispered.  
"Then in one moment, he became the same as all the rest. He hurt you, or threatened to, and all his promises and declarations suddenly meant nothing."  
She could only nod.  
"The one and only boy you had ever felt safe or comfortable with, the only one with whom you let your guard down, actually allowed yourself to trust -- and he betrayed you. He betrayed your trust and confidence, and that, more than anything else, more than his grip or pressure on your wrist, hurt, didn't it, Akane?"  
Everything she said was true. Akane knew this. She had all but admitted so to herself in the days immediately following the night where everything had gone so wrong. At first her terrible pain at Ranma's attack -- and it had been a pain, a most palpable and physical one, though originating in neither muscle nor bone -- had both confused and frightened her. Only through bitter contemplation had the source of her misery come clear. She had even explained as much to Nabiki this morning.  
One truth, however, she had continuously shied away from; only now, forced by Sayuri's empathic explanation to fuller comprehension, could she consciously understand the full extent of her loss. With the old Furinkan crowd trying to date her through violence; through repeated examples from Kuno; even perceived failures on the part of her father, especially following the death of her mother: her conception of boys had been consistently negatively reinforced, and she had decided very early that she wanted nothing to do with them. Then Ranma Saotome had appeared, and he was one boy -- even if occasionally a girl -- who resisted any attempt at being ignored. Even her kempo talents failed as a defense, his undeniably superior skills driving home since the first day that her training would avail her nothing should he decide to attack -- yet the possibility of violence originating in him had always seemed so very remote. Quite the opposite: how often had he gone to ridiculous lengths to protect her, or had taken a blow, no matter how savage or possibly crippling, on her behalf?  
Through him, as strange as it seemed, the opposite sex began to be redeemed in her eyes. More importantly, though, with him, Akane found someone in which to trust. There were the little betrayals, of course -- the times spent with other women, the insults -- but always she believed that, no matter what, he could never turn on her. She felt, if not love for him, then at least security with him; that faith had been a long time developing and most grudgingly given; and then the whole thing had been ripped and torn away in a moment of carelessness lasting less than a second. What had she lost in that moment? The betrayal had come from him, but they had both created the circumstances leading up to it. Some of the blame, she now knew, lay with herself. She had seen his vulnerability and ruthlessly attacked it. . . but I was so sure, she cried, so very sure nothing could push him that far. Push him away. He betrayed; I betrayed myself. Did my own faith in him frighten me?  
A pain previously only understood empathically could now no longer be denied.  
"Akane?"  
"Sayuri. . . ." She turned to her friend, deep grief etching her face, a thickness rising through her chest and threatening to tear her apart. "Oh Sayuri, why?"  
She collapsed into her friend's embrace, the first sob ripping free.  
"Shhh, Akane. It's okay."  
How long did she cry, lost in her friend's arms -- long enough for the hurt to ease, it felt, though both her realization and acceptance remained raw in her mind. Finally, though, her throat unclenched enough for words, pained and gasping though they were.  
"Why did he. . . ?"  
"He's a jerk, that's why."  
"No- no. He. . . we did it. . . why did I?"  
Sayuri pulled away with a sudden jerk, her face contorting with vicious anger. "What. . . you're not supposed to. . . Akane, Akane, this isn't your fault, you didn't do anything wrong, this is all his fault, Ranma's fault, he's the bastard who betrayed _you_, not the other way around!"  
"No, no, I led him; I said. . . ."  
"It doesn't _matter_ what you said! He _attacked_ you!"  
"But-."  
"Dammit, Akane, there's no room for 'but' here."  
"I, we set it. . . I made him. . . ."  
"What, hurt you? It's your fault?"  
Akane swallowed, stifled a sob. Took a deep breath. "Yes."  
"I can't believe I'm hearing this crap."  
"What?"  
"It'd almost be funny if it wasn't really happening; it's like watching a bad after-school drama, or reading it out of a textbook. You're turning him into the victim. Oh, poor Ranma, it wasn't _his_ fault he hurt you, was it? You made him do it!"  
Akane fell back a step before her friend's sudden fury.  
"You throw out a couple of words, and suddenly he's free to do what he likes? Is that it, Akane? What did he call you, ugly, violent, a bitch? He hurt you. He strangled Hiromi's boyfriend. He punched in Kiyoshi's wall. Nearly crippled Uehara. Yesterday he threatened the entire girls' class, wrecked school property, tore your sister's locker apart. Yeah, Akane, it's all your fault. He's the victim here." She spat out the next three words: "Poor. Fucking. Ranma."  
But Ranma only knows how to defend himself physically, thought Akane, suddenly finding herself protecting her ex-fiance. Were our attacks any less violent, less brutal, for being merely verbal and social? Three days ago Ranma put a hole in somebody's wall; yesterday, we all punched a hole in someone's soul.  
"The guy is dangerous. How much more violent has life become around Nerima since he showed up? How many fights a week does he get into? I'd say castrate him to keep his temper in check, but the curse just proves he's beyond help."  
"Sayuri. . . ."  
"Instead of a violent asshole, she's an aggressive bitch!"  
"Sayruri, please. . . let's not talk about Ranma anymore."  
"But-."  
"I thought you wanted me to forget the last few days. Tonight, I just want to be an ordinary girl out to see a movie. I don't want to think about engagements, or cursed fiances, or violence. I just want to walk through a mall, watch a movie, and eat some popcorn."  
"I-."  
"Please?"  
"I. . . ." Sayuri visibly restrained herself before releasing a giant breath. "I'm sorry. I guess he brings out the worst in me. This isn't over, Akane. What happened wasn't your fault. But for tonight -- I'll let it drop." A smile slowly eased itself onto her face.  
"Thanks." Akane twirled before her friend. "How do I look?"  
"Good!"  
"I do? Thanks." She looked herself over in the mirror once again: the girl who looked back now struck her as anything but normal. . . but she could pretend, for now at least, and at times that was better than the real thing. "Let's go."  
  
She came in late that night, and having appeased the worries of both her father and eldest sister, Akane retired to her room feeling calmer and more at ease than she had in a very long time. Having met up with a number of friends at the shopping arcade, the general consensus had been to skip the movie in favor of hanging out at the local park. Among these girls gathered under a slowly darkening sky, unified in their guilty pleasure at ignoring semester-end schoolwork and determined to simply loiter and enjoy time together, the problems of yesterday, the last weekend, month, year, seemed impossibly distant. Of what concern were arranged marriages and martial artists when sprawled across a wooden bench by a stone fountain, talking reflexively with a girlfriend; why worry about someone's return while collectively laughing at some strutting foolish boy who can not understand that his targets were no longer laughing _with_ him?  
For a time, entire hours, the stress of a year was forgotten. For a time, Akane felt that her life was her own once more. For a time, the future not only seemed limitless, but immaterial: bound in the pleasure of the present, the possibilities of tomorrow became irrelevant. Now, undressing for bed, carefully laying Sayuri's clothes aside -- she would have to remember to return them, perhaps Kasumi could even clean them first -- the heady glow with which she had started today still buoyed her, and it was the first day she could recollect in quite some time in which she had both awakened and returned to bed feeling content.  
Final toiletries finished, lights off and snugly lying beneath freshly cleaned sheets, she looked back over the day. A full day without Ranma, Akane thought. Not the first, of course: many times his father and he had left on training voyages alone, or Ranma had left on some quest or another without her. Always in those situations, however, was the unconscious assumption that, sooner or later, he would return, and life would resume as before. Not this time, for even if he returned -- even with his promise, that was in no way guaranteed -- there was even less chance that he would remain.  
Did she even want him to come back?  
There was the matter of responsibility, and she felt her stomach tighten at the reminder. Whatever I think about him, she reminded herself, Ranma's been hurt. Maybe badly, and I'm partly to blame. Until that is resolved, I have to at least watch out for him.  
Yet the temptation remained to simply never allow any aspect of that life to return, to block him out utterly, for she understood the tenacious and insidious capacity her ex-fiance had for unconsciously insinuating himself into the lives of others. Had he not been here for nearly a full year and a half, despite early and incessant protests by both of them that neither was interested in marriage? Only now he left, yet tendrils of his presence still enwrapped much of Nerima. As long as his absence was felt in the city, could she ever forget him?  
Do I ever want to?, she suddenly thought, and blushed: a sudden cascade of snippet memories (near kisses, a fleeting touch of hands, defiant protective cries) overwhelmed her, and for the first time of the day she felt momentarily exhausted.  
She suddenly yearned for the presence of P-Chan, and wondered where her little pet pig had been for so long. She felt the need to talk to someone, the need to confide in someone. Ideas needed to be put into words; held within her mind they betrayed themselves, were easily disrupted by errant recollections or swayed by random feelings. I need somebody to understand how and why I feel, she thought, and if the only one I can trust is a pig. . . well, maybe that says more about my problems than anything I possibly could. There was nobody else she could trust: not her sisters (one too mercenary, the other too traditional), not her father and certainly not Genma; Ranma's friends and rivals were biased, even Ryoga; her friends had been too distant too long to be confidants. Even Sayuri, though Akane hoped that in time, maybe soon, that friendship would return to what it had once been. It would be good to have a best friend once again.  
A diary would have been a nice alternative, but she learnt at a young age that with sisters like hers, such things were fundamentally unsafe -- one would read it for profit, the other out of genuine concern. Add a Ranma to the mix, and she might as well yell out her innermost feelings to the world. That left her with a pig, a very compassionate and empathetic one, perhaps, but a pig nonetheless: and he wasn't even here, anyway.  
Dammit, I can't sleep, she thought. Akane turned over in her bed, grappled with her pillow. She simply wasn't tired. Sleep would blanket this pointless meandering of her thoughts and lay her concerns to rest (at least for another night,) but deep rest eluded her. Why, especially after such an ordinary day?  
She thought about getting up and taking a walk. Eating a snack. Working out in the dojo. Starting a diary and hiding it better. Watching late night television. Reading manga. Listening softly to some music. Doing some homework. She remained in bed and didn't sleep, mind one step ahead of body.  
Tap.  
The sudden sound, light as it was, electrified her and banished extraneous ideas other than those related to immediate physicality. School, friends, trust, ideas burned away like mist before the sudden beating of her heart, rush of blood, tensing of muscles: all within a moment in which she neither blinked nor twitched but achieved a sudden awareness of her room. There -- again! Akane risked a glimpse through one eye: boyish silhouette outside her window, dim light of partial moon casting his pale argent shadow against one wall.  
Ranma?  
No. Not-Ranma, but an consequence of him nonetheless. Ukyou.  
Akane sighed. Sat up in her bed, letting the covers fall away. Clicked on her nightlight, dispelling the spatula-carrying shade in her room, gestured for the one outside her window to enter.  
"Do you have any idea what time it is?" Akane checked for herself. It was near midnight.  
The okonomiyaki chef lifted the window open and slid quietly into the room. Dressed in her traditional black combat tights, bandoleer across her chest and fully loaded, spatula strapped to her back, and bearing the most serious countenance, Ukyou fixed Akane with a piercing gaze. "Where is he, sugar," she said, her voice making it quite clear it wasn't a question, but a demand. "I want to keep this civil, so just tell me and I'll be on my way."  
"Hey, this is my house! Don't try and threaten me."  
"And this is my fiance. What've you done with him?"  
Akane shrugged. "Nothing. He's taken off."  
Her rival's eyes narrowed. "Where?"  
Akane knew she wouldn't believe her, and took some pleasure out of it. She wasn't tired yet anyway. "I really don't know."  
"You're not making this easy. . . ."  
"Don't you have a restaurant to run? Shouldn't you get some sleep?"  
"Everyone saw you run after him yesterday. I've heard the story your sister spread around. I want the truth. Where is he, Akane?"  
"You want the truth?"  
"Yes!"  
"You can't ha-." Akane took a deep breath. "The truth is, I really don't know."  
"Listen. . . ."  
"He's left on a training voyage. Mostly to cool down, though. If it'll make you feel better, he'll probably be back in a week."  
Ukyou eyed her suspiciously, but visibly relaxed after a moment. She passed a hand wearily across her eyes. "You mind if I sit down a moment, Akane?" she asked, gesturing toward a chair. Akane shrugged. "Thanks. I'm going to feel this tomorrow. The morning rush is going to be hell."  
"You'll understand if I'm not very sympathetic."  
The chef stripped off her giant spatula and carefully placed it aside before sitting. "Hey, I have a vested interest in wherever Ranma-honey goes and whatever he does. It's been busy at work so I've only been getting the info second hand, and a lot's been happening in the last few days."  
"So you come here looking for a fight at midnight?"  
Ukyou smirked. "Hey, a girl's always gotta be prepared, right sugar?"  
A slight smile grudgingly escaped as Akane relaxed. "Sure."  
"So you really don't know where he is?"  
"Nope."  
"Is it true?"  
"What?"  
"That you two are splitsville?"  
Akane didn't quite like the way her rival -- no, ex-rival, she realized -- put it, but shrugged. "I guess so."  
"So you don't care if I take off and hunt him down?"  
"It's your life."  
Good luck finding him, Akane thought.  
"What about comforting him in his time of need?"  
"Feel free."  
That would be an interesting scene to see.  
"I will find him, you know."  
"Go right ahead."  
The last thing Ranma would want right now is a fiancee with him.  
The girl sat back in her chair, gazing contemplatively over interlaced fingers at her. Akane waited patiently. How long before she clues in, she wondered. She was surprised how little the situation angered her -- surprised that it did not anger her in the least -- in fact, she was rather enjoying playing out the little scenario. For the first time, her own words rang true even to herself. She really did not care. A slight frown creased her brow. No, that wasn't quite right.  
"You really mean it this time, don't you?" said Ukyou.  
"Didn't I say so?"  
"It's not exactly the first time you two have broken up, you know."  
"It's different this time."  
"No shit, sugar. But why? What did you do to him?"  
"Me?" Akane felt a twinge of anger -- an all too familiar companion when dealing with the likes of her former rivals -- returning. "Sure, blame me."  
"Wouldn't be the first time you hit him without provocation."  
"You're not guilty of the same?"  
"Hey, I only hit Ranma when he deserves it."  
"Right."  
Ukyou grinned sheepishly. "Well, okay, maybe sometimes I get carried away."  
"Exactly. And that's what happened this time. I got carried away -- we both got carried away. We both said stuff we didn't really mean -- or maybe stuff we've always wanted to say finally came out, but never should have. Either way, none of it can be taken back, and some of it hurt me really bad. That's why we've broken up."  
The okonomiyaki chef was slowly shaking her head. "I find that hard to believe. Ranchan can be an insensitive jerk sometimes, but he's never mean."  
"Are we talking about the same Ranchan here?"  
"You're the one who's always been thin-skinned. You probably just took a joke of his the wrong way."  
"Really?" Akane leaned back against the wall, watching for Ukyou's reaction. "Maybe you're right. Maybe there's some other meaning to being called a 'bitch' that I wasn't aware of. Oh, and 'ugly,' 'mean,' and 'cruel,' too. Uncute didn't hurt much, but telling me I didn't have any friends did; and threatening to hurt me certainly didn't help. Was he joking? If he was, I sure missed the punchline."  
Eyes widening with each word, Ukyou stared back in disbelief. "No way he said those things."  
Akane shrugged. "He did. If you don't believe me, Nabiki's report says pretty much the same thing. To be fair, I'll admit I said some nasty stuff in return: I called him a pervert, and unmasculine, and a girl, and he took it really badly."  
Siting up in her bed past midnight, talking with an old rival across a darkened room only faintly illuminated by glimmering moonlight: certainly not the conclusion Akane had anticipated to her day. Yet -- hadn't she hoped for someone to talk to? Again, perhaps it said something about her life when friends and family failed as confidants. . . but a rival could be trusted; or, if not trusted , then at least expected to understand and even sympathize. Ranma had been the one to bring them together -- to bring them all together, Ukyou, Shampoo, Kodachi -- but perhaps with him removed as an item of contention, something akin to a friendship could now form. Such a relationship of sorts had existed between Akane and Ukyou in the past, but always suspicion on the part of the first, and opportunism on the part of the second, had remained between them. Now?  
It would be nice to have a friend who understood the other side of her life, the one that involved martial arts, duels, and the desire for independence. And once Ranma returned. . . if things took a turn for the worse, both support and help would not only be appreciated, but needed.  
Akane swallowed against the sudden tightness of her stomach.  
Now was not the time, however. Not for expressing feelings and concerns, or motives and desires. Perhaps one day she and Ukyou would be good friends, and tonight might have been the first step in that direction; but at times a single step was enough, and both had enough thoughts to digest for the remainder of the evening. Akane could feel the first yearnings for sleep spread through her body -- the encounter with Ukyou apparently had been just what she needed to settle her mind and body sufficiently for rest.  
The chef seemed content enough to let the subject drop -- for now. Weariness was apparent in her features, and she turned away with a wide yawn.  
"Later, 'kane."  
"Night. You know, you can use the front door if you want."  
"Heh. Thanks."  
"You coming to school tomorrow?"  
"Yeah. It'll be hell, but I'll be there."  
"Meet for lunch?"  
Her smile broadened. "Sure. I'd like that. I want to hear the rest of this. The inside scoop could give me the edge I need to finally snare by boy."  
A final farewell, and she quietly left. Akane settled into her bed, covers pulled up to her neck, eyes closed, breathing deepening, slow numbness spreading across her body. There would be other encounters with ex-rivals in the next few days, of that she was sure. Doubtless neither Shampoo nor Kodachi would be half as reasonable as Ukyou. Those, however, were concerns for another day.  
Akane slept.  
  
The week passed quickly.  
This proved a source of both relief and anxiety for Akane. With the passing of each day she grew more tense in unconscious anticipation of Ranma's return. As her uneasiness matured and came to occupy more of her conscious thought, and overwhelmed her unconscious mind in dreams, she came to count the days until his supposed return. She hoped then that her worries would be proven unfounded. The alternative was not something that she liked to think about.  
The first few days following Ukyou's nighttime visit, however, were busy enough to keep her from thinking of her ex-fiance. First had been Shampoo's appearance on the way to school: though made more difficult by the language barrier and the amazon's somewhat more violent ways, the conversation had proven very similar to the one with the okonomiyaki chef; except that, with a look of surprising comprehension in her eyes and a subtle enigmatic smile, she had pronounced, "Ranma finally learn, Shampoo wait now" before turning away and biking back towards the Nekohanten. Akane had watched her former rival disappear down the street, lavender tresses swaying in counter-time to her cycling, and suddenly felt small.  
Kodachi had required more convincing. Only violence, and some poetic intervention on the part of her brother dissuaded her from an attempt to assault the Tendo sister at lunch. Her threat rang clear in the air as she left, however: beware, if Ranma did not return by the week's end! Confronted with this, watching the leotard-clad lunatic fly across the rooftops, Akane had felt suddenly content and mature.  
Somehow, or perhaps unsurprisingly, neither her father nor Genma realized that something was amiss, Akane's explanation that he had left on a week-long training voyage after his mother's visit ("to reclaim his manliness," she had said) proving sufficient to satisfy their curiosity. With her ex-rivals momentarily calm, and Nabiki agreeing to remain silent (for her own reasons, she assured Akane, and not out of sisterly kindness), the fathers somehow never realized that their life-long dream of family union was in serious jeopardy.  
Life, otherwise, had proven delightfully normal, and she had immersed herself completely, and with some joy, into the routine of an ordinary schoolgirl: there were classes to attend, tests to study for, clubs to participate in, and friends to hang out with. She found herself spending time with Sayuri, and felt their friendship swiftly returning to its former closeness. Ukyou she saw far more of as well, and their sometimes-animosity slowly transformed into an almost camaraderie -- more than a few lunches and after-schools were spend at the Ucchan, and only rarely did they speak of Ranma.  
The week came to an end. Akane decided to have a sleepover. She remained unsure until the very end whether it was a final clinging-on to the normality she had recently enjoyed, or a mask for the gnawing anxiety that haunted her in anticipation of Ranma's return. The idea was received with enthusiasm. The party went well -- mostly. Many friends came, Sayuri, Yuka, Naomi, and even Ukyou, and more, and they watched movies in the house and slept in the dojo and talked until two in the morning, and did all the ordinary things that girls do at such occasions: and yet, faint echoes of what had disturbed her at Kiyoshi's party returned to do so at her own affair. She spent most of the night talking with Ukyou, found the gossip confusing and often dull, and came to wonder if there was something wrong with herself. When her friends left the next morning it came almost as a relief -- until the memory of Ranma returning, which had lurked at the back of her mind all night, brought back with it the worries of the week.  
  
******  
  
Understanding came to Ranma Saotome during the moment of greatest intensity of that early morning's training, and instead of shattering his fragile focus underscored it with inexplicable poignancy. With a timorous mental hold he retained possession of the idea lest it slip away, as he slowly, beautifully, completed an equally elusive technique. He rose to his feet, still gripped by the residual euphoria of his workout  
So that's why she's hurting, he realized. The sun's ascent overhead went unnoticed as he mulled the idea over. It came as some surprise -- not the cause of her pain, for some reason it now made perfect sense -- but he had not been aware of having even contemplated the problem. The last week had been one of both perfect simplicity and the utmost complexity. Only one thing had dominated his time: intense, single-minded training; but each technique and exercise and form had been dissected and studied with thoroughness. Such concentration had left little room for other considerations.  
At night, however, lying on his hard earthen bed, there were those brief moments before utter exhaustion and body weariness overtook him: in that brief time, what did his mind turn to? He could never remember by morning, and his dreams faded quickly -- snapshot images of Akane, perhaps? Certainly not of Furinkan, and of those who had betrayed him.  
There's nothing for me there, he reminded himself.  
He felt sluggish, and the clarity he possessed during training eluded him once he began the necessary mundanities of morning. With a fresh fire crackling and his kettle set over it, he walked down to the shallow forest stream that flowed nearby. The water was icy-cold, he knew from previous experience, and after stripping out of his clothes a quick dip served to dispel errant thoughts and shock him to full wakefulness. His dirt-and- sweat encrusted clothes he washed and scrubbed and hung to dry, then turned to his morning ablutions. Squatting by the river-side, he wished he'd thought to do so before turning female.  
Glinting in the rising sunlight, a reflection caught his eye: a young red-haired girl, naked and squatting by the water -- himself, of course, and normally he would have shied away from the image. This time, however, he paused: something felt strikingly familiar, and he grasped for recollection. Unlike earlier, however, the memory this time eluded him, and suddenly ashamed by his own female nakedness, he turned away.  
It's probably nothing, he told himself. Something left over from a dream.  
Returning to camp he pulled his other set of clothes -- equally dirty as the others, it seemed -- from his pack and dressed. What to do next, he wondered. Strength, speed, endurance, reflex, form, stance, and attack training: he'd tackled them all, and every muscle and joint still ached from the effort. No new techniques learnt in the last seven days, perhaps, but a further perfection of what he already knew. Maybe now he should focus on his female side?  
You could go home, drifted through his mind.  
He had neglected his cursed form all week, reverting to male form as quickly as possible each time circumstances had forced a change. Well, maybe another week of training focused entirely upon his female body's strengths and weaknesses was necessary. How often had he needed to resort to shameful feminine trickery due to a lack of confidence in the abilities of his woman's body? Again his mind began to draw together abstract ideas and concrete knowledge, and build a potential training regimen.  
"What am I training for?" he suddenly asked himself, out loud he realized, and the sound of his own voice and the very question itself shocked him into sudden stillness. It seemed the question hardly required asking -- and yet having done so, he began to doubt. I've trained this hard before, he told himself, this is nothing new. But this time was different, and he knew it: for while the near-desperation that had underscored the week's effort was familiar, this time there was no tangible enemy confronting him. This perfection of his technique, against whom would he apply it? This dispelling of all thoughts not immediately related to martial arts -- what was he avoiding?  
Akane, he told himself. A moment later he realized that wasn't true. There were issues yet unresolved between him and her, yet the thought of confronting her held little fear for him now -- held, even, a certain attractiveness. Somewhere, amidst the confusion and hurt of recent events, that wall of hesitancy that had always hindered and made any attempt to speak honestly with her ultimately fail, had simply disappeared. At a cost, of course. . . what else had been lost?  
All week he had danced about and studiously avoided the question of whether or not to return to Nerima. This he recognized, but again, settling upon the idea at this time brought little unease. Quite simply, he didn't want to, and could see little reason to do so, his promise notwithstanding. Return to those bastards at Furinkan? Deal with his remaining fiancees? Face off against more rivals? His parents? He snorted. Not likely. He might only be seventeen, but he could get by without any of them, he could take care of himself just fine.  
And yet. . . .  
He was lonely. So very lonely.  
There it was. Finally accepting the truth he had tried to bury beneath incessant physical exhaustion was enough to drop him to the ground, legs curling up to his breasts as he released a deep sigh that seemed to resonate from impossibly deep within. Damn this stupid body, he cursed himself, holding back on a sudden wetness of his eyes, but again he knew that being female had little to do with it. When was the last time he'd been so truly alone? Ten years of traveling, but during that entire time, his worthless idiot of a father, despite any other shortcomings he may have had, had always been by his side, morning, day, and night. In the last year-and-a-half, since his arrival in Nerima, he had often felt lonely: surrounded by people but seemingly understood by none, their presence had served to only heighten his isolation: but now, truly isolated with no one around, he understood how the former paled in comparison to the latter. At least in Nerima, there were voices to be heard other than his own -- even if those voices were usually underscored with anger and carried only curses and threats. It was attention, at least.  
"Guess I'm not the noble wandering martial artist I thought I was," he whispered to himself, and smirked in self-depreciation. How does Ryoga do it? I'll have to ask him next time I see him. It's probably why he hates me so much: what else does he have to think about other than revenge? Anything, even hatred, would be better than focusing on being alone.  
Finding his feet once more, he knew a decision had been made. What choice did he have but to return to Nerima? His training had not been in vain: it had served to bring him to this precise point: now he felt prepared to confront the people he thought he had left behind -- from fiancees to schoolmates, things as they had been could now come to an end.  
"Time to finish this," Ranma muttered, and then nearly laughed at his own conceit. It helped to think of his return as a final showdown. It was a concept he felt more at ease with.  
He returned to maleness, and as he gathered his few possessions and began to pack once again, his stomach churned uneasily. The wild food he'd caught and eaten had been anything but delicious, and his stomach had reacted most negatively. Now _there_ was a reason to go back: Kasumi's cooking. He smiled at the prospect and, hefting his backpack over his shoulders, Ranma took the first step towards returning home.  
  
****** ******  
  
In the brief interlude during which the pain abated slightly, he had time to morosely contemplate the water before him and think, why do I put myself through this shit, before his stomach clenched up, his throat spasmed, and he again forcefully and noisily puked up more of the night's meal. This time, at least, he remembered to hold his pigtail clear with one hand -- its length was already wet and dotted with clingy pieces of half-chewed rice -- and with the other he shakily reached up to flush the toilet once again. The brownish, chunky water swirled and carried its load of curry and vegetables off to a better place.  
Bent double over the Tendos' toilet, long, stringy strands of saliva looping from mouth and chin, Ranma Saotome turned his head and leveled a glare at the girl standing in the doorway.  
"Um. . . would it help if I said I'm sorry?" said Akane.  
He wiped his mouth clean with the back of his hand. "No."  
"Well I am."  
"Is this why you wanted me to come back so badly?"  
"I didn't mean-."  
Ranma raised one hand to forestall her protest, and returned his attention to the water before him. With something closer resembling a hiccup, he brought up another dollop of bile, and it landed wetly in the toilet. "Akane. I really, really don't feeling like talking right now."  
She left without another word, and he barely noticed the door sliding silently shut. Nose filled with the acrid scent surrounding him, throat burning and raw, Ranma returned to his not-so-silent contemplation at the porcelain throne.  
  
"Oh, hello Ranma, you're home."  
Kasumi's soft and gentle welcome momentarily threw him off guard as he returned from his week of training: a greeting he had most certainly anticipated, but his expectations had ranged from cold indifference to various levels of violence or parental screaming. Despite his confidence of that morning he felt nervous, but the eldest Tendo sister's few words abated his concerns and immediately put him at ease.  
"Um, yeah," he answered, slipping off his shoes and stepping through the door. He was well aware of both the appearance and scent he projected. His shirt and pants were encrusted with dirt and sweat stains, and his hair clung to his scalp with a slick tenacity that the hot weather hardly warranted. He shrugged off his pack and dropped it by the door, and followed Kasumi into the kitchen.  
"So how was your training?"  
"Pretty good. Excellent, even. I think I nailed down a few techniques I was having trouble with." As he talked he peeked into the fridge and nabbed a few sticks of leftover yakitori. "How've things been here?"  
"Oh, fairly quiet for the last week," Kasumi answered, returning to her domestic routine. "A nice new little shop opened a few days ago. The owner's really sweet. Miss Nakamura a few doors over was feeling a little ill, so I helped out. . . but I don't want to bore you, Ranma, you must find all this terribly dull."  
Leaning up against the wall, he smiled. "Naw, not at all."  
So the eldest sister continued to fill him in on the details of the week as she worked at cooking and cleaning about the kitchen, and the smoothness and surety with which she moved struck Ranma as appearing nearly martial in its expression. Domestic trivialities -- the sickness of a nearby pet, the small bird that accidentally flew into the dojo, the favored bowl recently broken -- that had never concerned him gained a significance beyond their prosaic value through her retelling. When was the last time he had truly listened to Kasumi, he wondered, or taken note of the undercurrents of life running through the neighborhood? It had never seemed important before. After a week alone in the wilds of Japan, however, the sudden feeling of a community surrounding him was reassuring. Kasumi, on her part, seemed to enjoy the unexpected audience. The tension slowly drained away as he gave himself over to her voice.  
"And that's it, really. Nothing compared to your week, I'm sure."  
"I dunno. Sounds like you've been busy. I never realized you did so much out of the house."  
Kasumi smiled. "Oh, it's nothing, really. But thank you."  
"For what?"  
"Listening."  
He shrugged, suddenly feeling slightly embarrassed. "Um, so, where's everybody else?"  
"Well, Father and uncle Saotome are out chasing grandfather Happosai again: they said they got an urgent call for help. Nabiki is spending the day at a friend's, and she said she wasn't sure if she'd be back for supper."  
"Oh, okay." He felt somewhat relieved that Nabiki wasn't home. The debt he supposedly owed her returned fresh to his mind upon hearing the name. "And. . . ."  
"Akane's just gone to pick up some ingredients she needs for supper tonight," continued Kasumi. "She should be back soon."  
A curious mix of pleasure and anticipation arose at the realization that he would soon see, and confront -- possibly for the last time -- his ex-fiancee. Then the full portent of Kasumi's words registered, and his stomach, already uneasy, flopped and sank.  
"Akane's cooking supper?"  
"Oh yes! She seemed rather excited that you were returning, and insisted on preparing the main course."  
Anticipation turned to dread. Urgent call indeed. Might not be back for supper, sure. Apparently everyone else had bailed, leaving him the sole target of Akane's latest culinary attempt. I suppose I should be flattered that they trusted me enough to come back when I said I would. It was small consolation in face of the upcoming meal. He muttered a few choice invectives against fate in general and resigned himself to a night of possible torture. After all, how bad could it be?  
Collecting his possessions by the door, he dropped them off in his room before trudging off for a bath. A vague unease began to gnaw at him, and it was a deeply preoccupied Ranma who stripped out of his clothing and stepped into the furo. He soaped and scrubbed and rinsed and hardly even noticed turning female. Only after sinking into the bath, the hot water easing muscles even as it flared half-healed training scratches and cuts into clean but smarting awareness, did the source of his distraction become clear.  
Kasumi. The house. The bath. His bedroom -- _his_ room, when a scant week ago he had denied any attachment to this building and its residents. Just now, the path from kitchen to room to bath: how often had he traced that very same route, with the same instinctiveness and comfort? Seven days ago he had felt a stranger in this house, unwanted, eager to leave. The urge to move on remained, yet the same urgency that had led him to that decision was now lacking, and he questioned the imperative that had led him to depart so quickly. He cursed himself and sank deeper into the water and tried to silence the hinting doubts arising in his thoughts. Too much of that lately, he decided. Thinking. Oh, sure, the week of training in the forest had been blissfully quiet, but ever since his awakening this morning, his mind had been abuzz with nettling half-formed ideas. Perhaps that was why I latched on to Kasumi's words so quickly, he thought. Hearing her words, I could ignore my own; focus on her images, not mine. After all, why else would I care about what happens around here?  
But strangely enough he found that he did, and after a few more minutes of forcefully trying to deaden his own mind -- stopping just short of actually banging his head against the ceramic tiles of the wall -- he decided he was just wasting his time and vowed to head over to the dojo for a purely-physical workout; and rising from the cooling waters, he returned to his senses just in time to hear the door slide open on its rollers, and he turned to face a very naked Akane stepping into the room. The small white towel, with its delicate edge of embroidered blue leaves and scattering of carefully rendered sakura blossoms, the one he remembered was given to Kasumi as a gift for help in a neighborhood bake sale -- he had helped too, running interference to keep Happosai away, and so had Akane, though nobody bought her attempt at cookies (something which, obviously, had annoyed her to no end, with the eventual result that he'd been forced to eat most of them) -- did very little to cover her modesty.  
Their eyes met. For far too long, it felt, they simply stared at each other. He found it impossible to read anything from those brown, slightly startled eyes, yet looking away never occurred to him. She stepped back through the threshold and slid the door shut once again.  
  
She waited in her room.  
The inevitable knock came, stronger and more confident than she expected. Akane struggled between distinct urges to simply remain quiet and pretend she didn't hear, or screaming and smashing her chair through the door. She chose instead to utter a curt, "Come in."  
It was Ranma, of course, still slightly wet around the edges and wearing a bath yukata. He bobbed his head as he entered but otherwise didn't seem the least bit apologetic. She felt an echo of that very special anger that only he seemed able to generate, rise within her. Well, she told herself, there goes a week of peace and tranquility out the window. Amazing, it took him less than a minute to piss me off, too.  
"Hi, Ranma," she said, though her tone was anything but welcoming.  
"Hi," he answered. "Er, well. . . I'm back."  
"Yeah, I noticed."  
He tried a little grin, and Akane watched with some satisfaction as it died under her steady stare. After a moment of heavy silence, he shrugged.  
"Fine, whatever. Let's just get this over with. You wanna slam me over the head with the table again, or will a simple scream suffice?"  
"Excuse me?"  
"How 'bout calling me pervert? Will that make you feel better?"  
"You are a pervert! You ogled me!"  
"Hey, you took a pretty damn good look too!"  
"As if -- you're the voyeur here!"  
"You walked in on me!"  
"You left the sign off the door!"  
"That's 'cus. . . oh, screw this, man." He turned back toward the door. "Didn't we already do this a year ago?"  
"Where are you going?"  
"To hide in my. . . in the guest room until my clothes are dry. Then I'm leaving." He glanced back. "You wanted me to come back? Fine. I came back. I don't know why. Obviously nothing's changed. I'll be out of your sight as quickly as possible, 'kay?"  
"Oh, cut the theatrics, Ranma. It made sense a week ago; now, you just sound petulant. Grow up."  
The words were slightly more barbed than she wanted, but they did stop him in his tracks. Good. She didn't want him to leave just yet: there were still so many things to resolve, things she needed to know. Already she could feel her anger of earlier subsiding -- she could even grudgingly admit that he had a point, she was the one who had walked in on him. And taken a rather good look.  
Surprisingly, she even found herself enjoying, in an angry sort of way, the verbal sparring between them. No one had really argued or tried to annoy her all week (except for maybe the ex-rivals), and while the respectful friendships had been genuinely pleasant, they had also been just a little. . . dull. It was almost fun, seeing whether she could push Ranma's buttons.  
"Grow up? You're the violent tomboy who looked ready to pound me when I stepped in the room."  
Of course, he was remarkably good at pushing _her_ buttons, too.  
"Still, I'm glad this happened," he continued, leaning back against the closed door. "Helped me figure out something that's been bothering me since I got back."  
"Oh really?" she said. "I didn't know you were so easily bothered."  
The look he gave her was odd. "Yeah. Sometimes. See, when I stepped through the front door, and Kasumi greeted me, and I walked around the house -- everything just felt so. . . normal. Nice. Kinda like, well, home, I guess -- not that I really know, since this is the closest I've ever come to having something like that."  
"You _have_ been here eighteen months, Ranma. That's not surprising."  
He shook his head. "You don't get it, Akane, you've always had this place. I've lived in other places for long enough, before: maybe not as long as here, but six months, eight, a full year here and there. . . and they've never felt like home before."  
Akane found her urge to nettle Ranma quickly dying, as he offered up a surprisingly honest. . . pain?, desire?. . . of his. How often had she wished for this -- how often had she denied it -- why did it have to happen once it was too late? For him to open up like this: something had happened during his week of training; he had changed in the last week, grown up, maybe. She suddenly wondered if she could say the same -- wondered if she suddenly felt intimidated or frightened by his openness.  
"But here. . . I dunno. Maybe it was 'cus I knew, those other places, they were only temporary, that I'd be moving on again eventually. Here was different. I know, we both hated the engagement, but for the first time, I couldn't clearly see a day ahead, some date circled on a calendar, where Pop and I'd be leaving. Or maybe it was Kasumi, or even Nabiki, or your dad. . . something made it feel like. . . well, if not my own home, something a hell of a lot better than just a house."  
But not me, Ranma, Akane thought. Never me.  
"But it wasn't that," he said, fixing her with his gaze. "When I got back today, I couldn't understand. Why had I been in such a hurry to leave last week? Even with all that shit back at Furinkan, it wasn't enough. But I remember coming back here that day, and this place feeling so alien, so unwelcoming -- like it does now. It's not your sisters, or your father, or the house itself. . . it's you, Akane."  
Her breath caught in her throat.  
"It's you. You don't want me here. And as long as you still hate me, or can't stand me. . . or, hell, feel the way you have about me for the last year -- this place can never be a home for me."  
He held her gaze for a moment longer, and the faintest expression of sadness seemed to wash across his face; but she blinked and it was gone. Finally he turned away. "So that's why I'm leaving."  
"Ranma. . . ."  
"Akane, please. . . don't."  
"Ranma, did you mean everything you just said?"  
"You think I'd lie about something like this?"  
"I don't know, Ranma," she said. "At one time, yes. To get out of eating my food, certainly."  
Despite his best efforts, a slow grin crept up and replaced the scowl that had been there just momentarily. "Damn, you know me too well. I'd considered it, yeah." He shrugged. "But, no, I'm being serious about this. I hafta. I have to leave -- I'm not sure I still want to, but I won't stay here, not the way things are. Not with you hating me."  
His words had an intensity of effect upon her that came as a surprise, and she suddenly knew that something had changed within her during the week as well. That he could admit to not wanting to leave -- that this house, family, home, meant something to him -- that she was the deciding factor in whether he stayed or not, though he had nowhere else to go: how could he admit this with such honesty, and she not do the same?  
But not yet.  
"Ranma. . . I already told you, I don't hate you. I don't think I ever have, not really."  
He sighed. "Not hating someone isn't enough, Akane. You don't hate Kuno -- but do you want him living with you?"  
"I know. I know. I. . . just, don't leave, Ranma. Not yet, please, just wait a little longer. After supper, we'll talk. I need time to think. I've been doing a lot all week, and now. . . I think I'm ready to make some choices."  
The look on his face was doubtful, yet she thought she could detect the faintest glimmering of hope within his eyes. Signs of an internal struggle were visible across his face -- she wondered how much the prospect of eating her food played in his deliberation -- before he apparently settled upon a decision.  
"Fine. I'll stay."  
"I'm glad."  
"And we'll talk after supper."  
"Yes. Please."  
  
Ranma, after his time in the bathroom, had retired to his room for the night, slightly feverish, exhausted, and in ill-temper. The fathers were back, slightly drunk and somewhat apologetic. Kasumi cleaned the kitchen and sang softly to herself. As for Akane: the youngest sister sat on the edge of the bed of the middle sister's room with burgeoning tears springing to her eyes, seeking comfort that was not entirely forthcoming.  
"Sis, I'd like to help, really," said Nabiki, "but you know I'm no good at this stuff. It's Kasumi's department. Wouldn't you be better off talking to her?" The middle sister leaned back comfortably in her chair, one arm propped up against her desk and supporting her head, legs crossed at the knee with one leg swinging casually with metronomic regularity. It was the only indication, really, that she was anything _but_ relaxed, and as aware of the nervous habit as she was, there was nothing she could do to still the sway of her foot. She hated giving advice, especially to family, especially when it was important. Manipulating people, having a little harmless fun at their expense was one thing, but offering a solution to a serious problem? What if she gave the wrong advice? Nabiki recognized that, for all her skill at reading people, she was if anything less experienced (if more forthright) than her younger sister when it came to affairs of the heart. Who was she to be giving advice?  
Beside, she distrusted people who easily offered advice, and that translated into a deep dislike of doing so herself. Most people offering help, she felt, were more interested in vindicating their own beliefs, or in some way reaffirming their own self-importance, than in any actual act of altruism. Never trust anyone giving free advice, she believed, they've got their own angle, even if they don't recognize it themselves. Yet here she was, being called upon, if not forced, to give some of her own.  
"I can't," answered Akane. Her voice quavered slightly, and she stopped frequently for short swallows or quick breaths. Her eyes glimmered with half-formed, unshed tears, a slight puffiness along the bottom eyelid revealing inceptive redness. Her entire expression and comportment exhibited extreme distress, to a degree that Nabiki had not seen in her younger sister for a very long time. The reason, however, eluded her, for aside from the usual problems, what had changed so significantly in the last few hours; or perhaps she should say, what had Ranma done this time? "Kasumi doesn't know about how things stand between me and Ranma," continued her sister, "and I can't tell her -- she'd tell Dad, or let it slip, or something. But I have to talk to someone, Nabiki, I have to. I can't keep this to myself, not any longer, I have to talk to someone, but there's nobody, nobody close enough or who knows or that I can trust. . . but I need help, he does too, and, and. . . ." She cut off suddenly, pressing the heel of her palms against her eyes, and slowly crumpled forward until her elbows rested against her thighs.  
Nabiki watched in shock as her sister seemed to collapse inwardly. She wondered if her sister was crying, for though Akane's body trembled all over, neither sob nor tear escaped. I must've missed something, she berated herself, there's something going on here that I don't understand. She was fine this morning, even with the idea of Ranma leaving forever, and now she's falling apart. I have to find some way to figure out what's happening. Unsure of what to do, she simply watched as her sister sat there, shaking silently, until time drew out and the tension became unbearable; and suddenly Nabiki knelt next to Akane and hesitantly pressed a hopefully comforting arm to her back. "There, er, there. It's okay, it'll be okay," she said, deeply hoping that everything _was_ okay, and knowing that things obviously were far from being so.  
Suddenly her little sister's tremulous movement stopped, and she sat up straight, Nabiki's encircling arm falling aside. Akane took a deep breath and seemed to compose herself. She appeared fine aside for a reddening around her eyes where her palms had pressed. The youngest Tendo looked around for a moment, as if momentarily confused as to where she was. She then stood up. "I'm sorry, Nabiki. I'm fine. Really. I'll be okay. I should go." An obviously forced smile crawled across her lips, quickly disappeared, and then Akane stepped toward the door.  
The signs which had been obvious all week but that she had somehow missed -- or not allowed herself to recognize -- were momentarily fully apparent as Nabiki caught a look of her sister's face as she turned away. Akane was anything but fine. The slight pallor to her features, a deep-set nervousness or distraction lending an unpleasant jerkiness to her movements: these elements had been there all week, if not so clearly exhibited; subliminal, perhaps, unconscious, but nevertheless existent, and once again Nabiki berated herself for having not noticed. Or had she noticed and simply chosen to ignore the signs -- would she, the mercenary Tendo sister, have overlooked the same telltale signs in an opponent during a monetary transaction? Now brought to the fore by. . . something, Ranma's return, a change she was yet unaware of, Nabiki could no longer overlook the tensions pulling at her younger sibling. Akane was falling apart -- or, more likely, tearing herself apart.  
"Don't you dare leave this room, Akane," she found herself saying, just as her sister's hand closed around the doorknob. "Don't you leave this room."  
"I'm okay," was the answer, given without turning around. "I'm fine."  
"Bullshit. Bull - shit, you're fine. You just fell apart in my room, Akane. You broke. I've seen you cry, scream, yell, pound the wall, but you've never. . . collapsed." She allowed some of the genuine fear she felt slide into her voice. "You scared me, sis." She took a deep breath. "Please. . . tell me, tell me what's going on."  
"I don't want to talk about it."  
"Dammit, Akane! Yes you do, or you wouldn't have set foot in my room. You want to talk about this, you _need_ to talk about this."  
"I can't."  
"You will! If I have to blackmail you, if I have to tell Daddy about you and Ranma . . . I'll make you talk! You have to!"  
"I can't!" Akane finally turned, spinning back toward her sister, first tears streaking down her cheeks as her voice escaped in a startled gasp. "I can't!"  
Nabiki didn't answer, she didn't know what to say, but simply moved forward and collected her sister in an embrace. For a moment she felt Akane tense up -- how strong she was, muscles hard and taut beneath her grasp, and for a moment the older sister felt afraid -- but then release herself to the hug, going soft, giving herself over to the comfort offered.  
  
Without letting go, she moved the two of them over to the bed and sat next to her sister. Tears turned to sobs, deep ones that made Akane's entire body shudder as she buried her head in Nabiki's shoulder. No words were given nor needed, as the elder sister waited for the crying jag to run its course. It was getting dark outside, she noted, the vivid sunset hues streaking across the March sky fading into the blues and greys of dusk. The last errant sakura blossoms, withering and fading as the season ended, fluttered past her window on the evening wind. It suddenly felt unnaturally quiet, for aside from the muffled and lessening sound of Akane's weeping and her own soft breathing, Nabiki could hear nothing from the remainder of the household.  
There was a stirring from within her embrace, and Akane slowly and quietly pulled away. Her face was red and tear streaked, eyes bloodshot from the fierceness of her crying, yet already some of the nervous tension that had underscored her demeanor seemed to have faded. Nabiki wordlessly passed her the tissue-box. Akane wiped her eyes and blew her nose, and finally sat back on the bed, leaning back against the wall. The older sister waited.  
A deep sigh, and Akane spoke. "Thanks."  
Nabiki nodded. "No problem."  
"I really fell apart there, didn't I?" Hint of a wry grin.  
"To pieces. Total collapse. You were a mess."  
"Guess you were right."  
"I've told you before, never argue with big sister."  
"Yeah."  
Silence. Akane wiped at her eyes again, closed them, curled into a small ball, thighs to chest and chin resting on knees. Nabiki, at the opposite end of the bed, stretched out her legs and waited some more.  
"I'm sorry," Akane finally said, eyes still closed. "I didn't mean to. . . ."  
"Hey. Don't worry about it. I'm no Kasumi, but that doesn't mean I don't care."  
"I know."  
"So are you ready to talk about it?"  
"No."  
"Will you?"  
A pause.  
"Yes."  
  
Ranma dreams: I walk along a cobblestone path toward shimmering depth of blue. There is nothing else: no light no sound, neither scent nor sensation: only the path, the pool, and I. Darkness all about. Yet with each step a concurrent reality intrudes itself upon my march. First: voices, ephemeral, their source just beyond the limits of vision, incomprehensible. Then: phantom traces of others along the path. Recognition accompanies the intrusion of cloying sweetness wafting on the night's wind, sakura's short blossom'd end: I walk a chosen path clad in female body and female clothing, and as always my feminine form forces a disjointed nightmarish aspect upon the scene. My orange bikini sheds crimson as a duck sheds water, flies four times about my head and joins the embers floating skyward. I have returned to the party. I am not alone. I join my friends, they ply me with drinks and jokes and sexual innuendo and observing the scene from without I see myself shudder at each, for I have just noticed the cracks in their face through which the curry of their minds flows. I step up to the edge of the pool; every broken, immobile bodied seeping face turns to follow; and I leap into the air, high above them, into the darkness, suspended, above a coalescing pool of bloodied red- spattered brown curry every grain of rice a sharp, serrated-edged tooth flowed free from friends' gaping yawning maws and pointing straight at the me suspended above their putrescence, suspended and spinning curled-up cannonball-dive ball,  
and I grasp the ball in my hand and for a moment, gaze off into the distance, into the clear unspotted sky punctuated only by the single bespectacled duck hovering on the horizon. I toss up the ball and it seems suspended, blocking the sun, and in the swelling darkness the girls and boys form a ring about me, hands linked, drawing closer, circle closing, looming faceless, restraining me. I laugh out loud triumphantly. They have no idea of what is coming. Restrain me, who blocks the sun and becomes that very orb of light and heat from which they cower? I hoist the bat and swing,  
and I hit the ball just -so-, with all the strength I can muster with all the control and fluidity and power that seventeen years of martial training has wrought and I watch the ball disappear into the distance with a resounding crack,  
and it's all so clear as I watch myself plunge arrow-like into the slough of Furinkan's decay spewed forth of the phalanx of faceless cracked gaping students lining the pool's edge and standing row after row into the unending distance.  
  
It was some time before Akane felt ready to continue. Despite her threat, Nabiki nevertheless allowed her younger sister to leave the room, on the condition that she promise to return. Word given, she took her time in the bathroom; seeing her puffy eyes and reddened nose, and the other visible signs of her sadness that still marred her face, Akane marveled at how quickly the tranquility of an entire week could be so thoroughly destroyed. But she couldn't muster anger, not at this point, not at Ranma. Even the memory of his betrayal failed to pierce the lethargic blanket of melancholy that settled softly and numbingly around her, as she stared at herself in the mirror. Face: limpid unblinking hazel eyes: shallow pools. She blinked, turned away, feeling sudden disgust.  
That betrayal. It failed to anger her, but she hadn't yet forgiven him. She wondered if she ever could, wondered if others could ever understand how deeply his unthinking simple -- incredibly complex -- action had scarred her. Unthinking? Hardly, and perhaps the wound cut all the deeper for having been so obviously considered. How much had been decided in that impossibly brief moment, hand on wrist, twist, tightening of muscle, psychic spasm of pain that yet reverberated throughout. The eyes showed it. Had shown it. A choice. . . .  
She was back in her sister's room, now dressed in her yellow fishcake- design pajamas, hardly aware of having changed. Her sister waited patiently, idly flipping through a year-old manga, one leg casually swinging with monotonous regularity over the edge of the bed. Akane quietly sat at the edge of the mattress.  
"He knew exactly what he was doing," she said, almost startling herself with the recognition that she had begun speaking. It was a sudden realization, and she pursued the new idea even as she spoke. "When he hurt me that night."  
Nabiki snorted indelicately. "No shit, Akane. Of course he did. You don't twist somebody's wrist by accident."  
"No, no, not that," answered Akane, shaking her head. "That was nothing."  
"Nothing? He hurt you, sis."  
"That's the thing. He didn't. He didn't. I pulled away before he actually applied enough pressure for it to cause pain."  
"So what? He meant to, and that's what counts here, drunk or not. Intent, right?"  
"Did he?" Akane focused for a moment on her sister, before returning her gaze to the wall opposite her. "Mean to hurt me, that is? I'm not so sure, now. I mean, that's what's been eating at me all this last week. The idea that he'd actually hurt me. Betrayal. I trusted him -- I never realized how much -- even when I accused him in the past, I still believed in him -- he'd always protected me, absurd lengths, never retaliated, built a trust. . . ." The word tumbled out, quickly, half-spoken as she rushed along a new idea towards an unknown destination; then she came to an abrupt halt, took a deep breath, before continuing with sudden deliberateness. "And then he cut all that out from beneath me with a few words and his hand on my wrist.  
"But what if. . . ." Brown meeting blue over crossed hands, a year reduced to a heartbeat, myriad possibilities to a single inevitability. "It wasn't about the party, or going swimming, or doing what either he or I wanted to do that night."  
"Then what?" Her sister's question nearly startled the answer out of her mind, so intent had she been on it.  
"It was about making a choice."  
"Yeah, to hurt-."  
"He made his then and there, offered me the same. . . ."  
"Huh?"  
"It's been eating at me all week, trying to understand. He chose without me."  
"Sis, what the hell are you talking about?"  
"And tonight I ruined everything."  
"Hello?"  
Akane suddenly felt the same staggering sadness of earlier well up within. Tears sprang once again to her eyes. An overwhelming crush of emotion. She recognized that the decision that had tormented her all week had likely been made long ago; and given a chance to reverse her choice, she had unconsciously undercut that very possibility. It was the only explanation, and now she wept at her own weakness of spirit -- and yet, it seemed, she felt a slight relief that the ambiguity was now resolved.  
"Okay, you've got me," a dry voice interrupted, "I've got _no_ idea why you're crying this time."  
A giggle, with an undercurrent of hysteria, cut through her tears. Akane turned back to her sister. Nabiki was watching her with a hint of a wry smile. Of course you don't, she thought, how could you, you too decided long ago.  
"Don't you see, Nabiki? Tonight!"  
"So we're back in the present?"  
"We were supposed to talk!"  
"Um, aren't we?"  
"Not you, Ranma! Ranma and I were supposed to have a big talk tonight, after supper."  
"I dunno, sis. He didn't look up for too much after puking his guts out. I can't really blame him for heading off to bed."  
Akane frowned. "Thanks, Nabiki. I can see you're taking this very seriously."  
Her sister shrugged. "Hey, at least you stopped crying. I told you: I want to help, but I suck at giving advice. And when you walk into my room, burst into tears, leave, come back, get all cryptic, then burst into tears again -- well, what do you expect? I need full sentences here, sis, give me something to work with!"  
Akane blew her nose, wiped her eyes dry. Well, she thought, although the sarcasm was something she'd rather do without, she couldn't fault her sister for at least trying. At least the irritation Nabiki provoked was better than the overwhelming sadness or stupefying apathy she felt when on her own.  
"Okay." She decided to try again. "Earlier today, Ranma and I had a short talk. He -- well, he's changed a bit in the last week, I think. He admitted some pretty serious stuff to me. And I wanted to answer back, meet him halfway. After a year-and-a-half, we were finally talking, Nabiki, we were really talking, and not just arguing or swapping nonsense. But I needed time. I told him, later tonight. After supper."  
Nabiki nodded in comprehension. "Right. But that never happened, because he got sick."  
"Exactly. And. . . oh, Nabiki, it was _so_ important for us to talk! He was ready to leave, for good, forever. I told him to stay, to wait. Tonight was my last chance to convince him."  
"Yes, but sis," her sister interjected, leaning forward, "do you _want_ him to stay?"  
That, of course, was the crux of the matter. How many issues were concentrated into that single question? What did it mean for him to stay; what did it mean for him to leave? But she had a ready answer -- not _the_ answer, but one that would do.  
"Yes, Nabiki, I do." Her reply came with only the briefest of hesitations. "I don't have the right to make him leave. He made it very clear: the only thing making him go away was me. But that's not fair. If he leaves, what does he lose? Home, family, friends, his education: everything. What kind of life can he expect to lead, if I send him away?"  
"I dunno," Nabiki said, and shrugged. "The kind of life he wants, maybe?"  
  
Ranma dreams: I step from the river onto solid earth. The swim was refreshing. It eased the heat of the day and cleansed the sweat from my body. I take a moment to exult in the simple glory of being alive, in breathing deeply and feeling the swell of air within my muscle-hardened chest. I exult in the vibrant life of the forest around me. I exult in the knowledge that I am myself -- for what else could I possibly be? Content, I step,  
from the river onto solid earth. The swim was refreshing. It eased the heat of the day and cleansed the sweat from my body. I take a moment to exult in the simple glory of being alive, in breathing deeply and feeling the rush of air beneath the swell of my soft rounded chest. I exult in the vibrant life of the forest around me. I exult in the knowledge that I am myself -- for what else could I possibly be? Content, I watch the man follow the path leading into the woods, choose to follow, and I step,  
from the river onto solid earth. The swim was refreshing. It eased the heat of the day and cleansed the sweat from my body. I take a moment to exult in the simple glory of being alive, in breathing deeply and feeling the intake of air beneath incipient breasts, within my youthful chest. I exult in the vibrant life of the forest around me. I exult in the knowledge that I am myself -- for what else could I possibly be? Content, I watch the woman follow the man follow the path leading into the woods, choose to follow, and I step,  
onto the path leading into the woods, alone yet fulfilled. I feel that I am missing nothing. The trees surround me, teeming with wildlife: a duck darts from the brush, quacks urgently at me once, and soars into the air, the bright sun glinting off of his glasses. On a whim I choose to follow the bird, for I am free to do as I choose.  
I walk along this new path, through a steadily darkening forest, and the multitudinous sky-reaching trees begin to give way to ground that squelches underfoot and reeks of rot. Fetid water squeezes its way through the healthy soil and corrupts. I no longer wish to find what lies at the center of this mire, for I am alone. It calls to me. No challenge can be refused.  
I am afraid.  
(I am afraid.)  
(I am afraid.)  
  
Another brief pause, her final question seeming to have stunned her sister into momentary silence. Nabiki found that, despite herself, she was actually enjoying this little sister-to-sister moment. They were all too rare. It was great fun watching her little sister's mind run through loops and blow the occasional fuse. But it was tiring work, and so while Akane pondered, the older sister padded downstairs for a snack.  
The fathers had given up on shogi and turned to igo, although a quick glance at the board left her wondering what purpose the red, green, and plaid stones filled. The kitchen was empty but had been left immaculate, and Nabiki almost felt guilty disrupting its pristine state by daring to pour herself a glass of milk. The fridge revealed a bowl of leftover rice and curry, and she carried the late-night meal back upstairs with her.  
"So, what're you going to do?" Nabiki asked, as plopped down on her bed across from Akane.  
"I don't know," her younger sister answered, "I feel like I ruined everything."  
"I really don't see how you're to blame in all this."  
"The food, Nabiki. I made him sick."  
"Oh, big deal. It's not the first time you've nauseated someone with your cooking."  
"Thanks."  
"C'mon, you know it's true. But that just goes to show you, it's nothing to worry about, it's not like you spiked his tea or poisoned him on purpose, or. . . hey, what's wrong?"  
"But that's just it," Akane yelled, "I did poison him on purpose!"  
Nabiki opened her mouth, thought better of it, closed without saying a word. She took a sip of milk. Tried again. "Um, excuse me?"  
The anger that drove Akane to raise her voice now abruptly seemed to transform into shame, eyes dropping and fixating on the floor. Her fingers found folds in the bed sheets and hid from sight. No answer was forthcoming.  
"Akane?"  
"I-." The younger sister glanced up before looking away again. "Well, what else could it be," she said in a quiet voice. "I must have done it on purpose. I know what my cooking's like, Nabiki. Maybe it's getting better, but I still know how bad it really is. I taste my own food now -- you have no idea how many meals I've thrown away because I knew they were inedible. But not this time.  
"Not this time," she repeated, and sighed. "And why not? I said earlier I wanted to talk to Ranma, it was my last chance to set things right, maybe, or convince him to stay; but it's a lie. It's all lies. I might say it, but obviously I don't mean it, or I wouldn't have insisted on cooking. I wouldn't have forced him to eat my food. I wouldn't have walked in on him in the bathroom. I wouldn't have turned away from the opportunity to talk when it came up -- not if I really wanted to do so. Time to think, I said. Ha! I'd already had a week to think. It was enough for him, it should've been enough for me, too.  
"I'm a coward, afraid of finally having an open conversation with him, and I delayed and hid behind my cooking until the threat Ranma represented was gone, and. . . ."  
"Oh, will you shut up," said Nabiki, and leveled a glare of disgust at her younger sister. "Have you gone loopy or something?"  
"What?"  
"You give yourself too much credit, sis. I hate to break it to you, but, frankly, you're not that deep."  
"Hey!" The look of sudden indignation on Akane's face was nearly comical. "I am so deep!"  
"Sorry, Akane, you just don't work on that many levels. Trust me. Many things you are, sis: kind, and caring, considerate. . . and, let's face it, just a tad violent; but you're also forgiving, so that's okay. But most of all, Akane, you're honest. Heart on your sleeve honest. You're not capable of that level of self-deception." Well, maybe, thought Nabiki, at least when it comes to matters of Ranma and love. But she wasn't even sure of that anymore. You said Ranma had grown in the last week Akane, but I think you may have as well. I don't think we'd be having this conversation otherwise.  
Her sister had the oddest look on her face, a cross between desperately wanting to accept what had just been said, and anger at the somewhat belittling -- Nabiki took some pride in the carefully calculated tone of her voice, half-reassuring, half-condescending -- judgment of her character. Apparently consolation won out, as she released a deep sigh and much of the tension visibly drained from entire body.  
"I. . . do you think so? Maybe I am reading too much into this."  
"For sure," agreed Nabiki. "With Ranma too. I don't know what you were babbling on about back there, with all that nonsense about choices and decisions and whatnot, but I'll tell you this: the only thing he was thinking about at that point was going swimming. If he hadn't been so drunk, he probably would've backed down, too."  
"You really think so?"  
Nabiki nodded. "He's even more straightforward than you, sis. The guy couldn't deceive if his life depended on it. He's an open book." But even as she said so, a little doubt gnawed at her: the Ranma she had confronted a week ago was not the same as the one she'd dealt with and swindled and toyed with for the last year. There had been a hint of a backbone beneath the genuine contrition over what had happened with her sister. If he had changed as much in the last week as Akane seemed to think. . . things could prove interesting. But that was neither here nor there, for what her sister needed at this time was comforting, not further doubts. Constant self-questioning never came to any good. That she knew all too well.  
"I guess," Akane said, and flopped back onto the bed. "I hope."  
"No doubts. Don't worry."  
"I just really wish he had liked the food tonight. I even cooked rice curry for him. I thought he liked my curry."  
Nabiki paused, glanced down at the nearly empty bowl cradled in her lap. "That's odd," she said, mainly to herself. She felt inwardly, checking for imminent stomach cramps, convulsions, cold sweats. . . death. Everything seemed fine.  
"What is?"  
She took a tentative bite, which felt a little silly after having already taken in the entire bowl. It tasted. . . fine. Almost. . . good. Poor by Kasumi standards, maybe, but probably better than anything she could serve up on her own. "Did you serve anything else?"  
"No, just curry. I didn't want to overdo it." Akane propped herself up on one elbow and looked curiously at her. "Why?"  
"It's just strange, that's all." She showed her sister the bowl. "I just finished off the leftovers. It tasted fine. I'm surprised Mr. Iron Stomach couldn't handle. . . sis?"  
For even as she trailed off, she watched the most remarkable transformation overtake her young sister's countenance: she paled, immediately, features turning white, even as suddenly bloodless lips yawned in a soundless 'o'. Her eyes resembled those of one who, turning a sharp corner on a mountain road, suddenly finds a truck bearing down on her; eyes wide and unblinking, yet not so much surprised as resigned to the nearing inevitability, unwilling to accept yet unable to deny the reality of what was happening. A slight tremor overtook Akane, seeming to start from deep within, but building as it spread outward, so that within moments she was shaking hard enough that Nabiki, at the other end of the bed, could feel a slight shiver through the mattress.  
And then the silence was broken, as a low, pitiful moan tore itself from Akane's lips, ending only when she buried her face in her hands, at which point the only sound Nabiki could make out was her sister's constant, broken repetition of a single word: "Oh Ranma, Ranma, Ranma. . . ."  
  
Ranma dreams: Lightning crashes in the distance. A tree is split in two, from drooping head to sunken bulbous base. Earth is thrown up and scattered. Indistinct from afar, an object upon the horizon reveals itself to be a thick stone slab set upon short, thick legs. Up close, the detailing is meticulous, chthonic, disturbing, grey-stoned carved and age- pitted. Slippery rotted vegetation droops limply over the edges, curls along the dulled relief and reaches for the moist earth. Darkened crimson streaks sunken into the top slab's sides look well used. Life crawls along the altar's massive clawed supports, scurrying through ctenophore canyons, cilia crevices, feelers a-twitch, mandibles snapping, a thousand thousand chitinous legs raising a seething sibilant shivering rustle.  
Someone lies bound to the altar: a young girl, naked, arms and legs spread and lashed down by blackened creepers no longer verdant. Her red hair is unbound but twined with stalks of wheat, and falls half across her face. Her mouth is opened to scream but no sound escapes. Twisting vines leaking fluids choke her cries.  
Someone stands next to the altar: a woman, tall and frigidly beautiful, bearing a strong resemblance to the child lying before her on the altar. Crimson sakura blossoms dripping blood flow across the midnight- pitch fabric of her kimono. She holds a drawn katana in her hands, overhead, point aimed towards the helpless figure before her.  
"No!" The cry tears itself from my throat as I see my darkly-clad mother lift her katana overhead. I can not make out the figure lying before her, but I know beyond all certainty that she must be saved. Fear becomes immaterial once that decision is made. I sprint forward, across the wet earth, faster than I have ever moved.  
(I watch myself move forward; I watch myself follow; I watch myself stare in terror as my mother lifts the family blade overhead and aims it straight for my core.)  
But suddenly dozens of Ryuta Ueharas and Sayuris and Hiroshis are blocking my path, splashing me with sticky sweet drinks and slowing me with insults and stopping me by bonding. They go down quickly, a single kick or well placed punch eliminating the delay, but there are hundreds, it seems, far far too many to simply plow through. And the sword rises ever higher and gleams ever sharper, and sudden fear chills my soul at the thought of it slicing me to the very core. Yet even as tears of frustration spring to my eyes the opposition melts away before me, and a loud, insistent voice urges me forward.  
"Go, dammit! I'll hold them off," yells my female half, tearing Sayuri's head off with a vicious knife-hand, swinging the head by its long hair and knocking a half-dozen foes aside. "You have to save us!"  
Even as a leap forward I know it's too late: glint of argent steel; spray of red; scrape of metal, bone and steel.  
I didn't make it, I failed, the scream of loss escapes before it twists into one of pain. The sword follows a straight path, as it was designed to do: from my mother's hand, through the soft flesh of my inner thigh, through the softer belly of the girl beneath me, into the thirsty stone of the altar. Staring up in disbelief at the woman responsible reveals only piercing eyes and thin lips curled into a malicious smirk. Bloodied hands -- mine -- curl about the wet shaft piercing me and I. I pull. There is resistance. I will not be denied. The sword slides free with a slick slurping sound. My mother stumbles back and falls, and for a moment resembles someone else, a man, perhaps, face briefly obscured by shadows. And before I can look closer, the altar crumbles away, and I fall into the gaping, collapsing earth, followed by stone and blood, into darkness.  
  
It was her sister's urgent shaking and forceful urging that broke Akane's incessant, quiet sobbing, and she looked up with red, though tearless, eyes into Nabiki's concerned face.  
"Shit, sis, what's wrong?"  
How to explain: the pain, the twisting hollowness within as her worst fears were confirmed; that the possibility she had denied herself even contemplating all week was now all but certain. It couldn't be, impossible, not to -- another explanation, had to be, he'd been sick -- somebody else would've seen, known. . . but even as her mind shied away from the idea, she found herself finally unable to deny the reality of what was happening, and it made her sick, she swallowed against the rise of bile in her throat, eyes squeezed shut, cold sweat; and an abiding sense of dormant panic awoke and seized her in its grip.  
"Akane. . . Akane!"  
She wouldn't explain, couldn't, giving voice to what she had finally consciously realized would make it too real. It was too dangerous. Could destroy the household. Ranma. Oh, Ranma. . . .  
"I can't. . . ," she started to say, voice hardly a whisper, but even as the words escaped she suddenly knew that it was inevitable, she _had_ to share what she knew. Her stomach twisted again. She wasn't strong enough to carry this in her own, Akane now realized, even a single week had proven too much. Not on her own.  
"Akane," tried Nabiki again, "what's going on?" Then Akane grabbed her by the shoulders and pull her close, and suddenly tearful hazel eyes cleared, hardened, demanding her attention.  
"Nabiki. What I'm about to say, you can't ever share with anyone. No one. Ever."  
"Sis-."  
"Promise, Nabiki," Akane insisted. She saw her sister wince in pain, and realized that she had tightened her grip. She didn't relax. "I have to share this, I can't do this on my own, I need your help. . . but I need to know that what I say won't leave this room. That it'll stay between us."  
She watched as her sister momentarily hesitated, biting her bottom lip in indecision. Akane couldn't and didn't guess at what was running through Nabiki's mind -- her own was in far too much turmoil to do so. But finally, still caught in the younger sister's painful embrace, Nabiki gave a small nod of consent.  
"You promise, Nabiki?"  
"I. . . promise. I do." And then, a moment later when Akane had yet to release her, a touch of anger tainting her voice. "Dammit, Akane, I said I promised!"  
Only then did she let go, and fall back, and watched as Nabiki pulled away and gently rubbed at her shoulder. Already she felt some of the tension -- if none of the queasiness -- abate. "I'm. . . I'm sorry," she offered.  
"I hope so!" Nabiki said, frowning, obviously pissed off, voice loud. "That's going to bruise, you know! This better be good, sis, first you send me in a panic, then you hurt me, and now. . . ."  
"I think Ranma's been raped," Akane whispered.  
  
She was totally unprepared for the sight that awaited her when the lights flickered into life. Untidy disarrayed sheets. Dishevelled Chinese shirt. Bikini top crumpled on floor. Mussed bangs and unravelled locks. Red -- red. Pungent reek of bile and sweat and alcohol. Stifling unaired cluttered over-bright room, and Akane finally, forcefully focussed on the centre of the scene: the half-naked unconscious girl curled into a tight, small ball in the middle of the bed. Whatever anger had carried her back this far faded immediately as her eyes lingered disbelievingly over Ranma's shivering form. "Ranma?" she whispered and then, when he failed to respond, again, louder, "RANMA!"  
The redhead uncurled slightly, eyes flickering open. He smiled. "A - Akane," he sighed, and struggled briefly to reach towards her. Then his whole body trembled, convulsed once, and he collapsed, pitching forward onto the mattress. The bed bounced him up once and then he remained motionless, laying face down. Akane was at his side a second later, kneeling next to the bed.  
"C'mon, c'mon, Ranma. . . ," she whispered, desperation tainting her voice, lightly shaking the redhead. This couldn't be happening; not this, not to Ranma. . . . A tight, tight knot formed in her stomach as she looked him over, wash of guilt and fear and worry. "C'mon, Ranma, please. . . ."  
His head lolled limply to one side, but after a moment she was rewarded with a glimpse of slitted blood-shot cerulean eyes. "Akane," he moaned, and one hand fluttered feebly towards her.  
"Wh - what happened," she asked softly, taking his hand in hers. It was cold and clammy.  
"You came back," he mumbled, voice so thick and slurred it was practically incomprehensible. "I don't feel s'good, 'kane. . . ."  
"Ranma. . . ."  
"It hurts, Akane. It hurts." His voice was almost a whimper.  
"I - I'm sorry."  
"S'not your fault," he whispered, "s'mine," and his eyes closed and his dirty, smudged female face relaxed into something nearing sleep.  
Akane stood up. After a moment of staring down at Ranma, she slowly reached down and picked up the fallen bikini top. It was awkward, but she managed to pull the thing back over his generous bosom. Then she straightened out his shirt and tied the front up. Finally she took hold of the bottom, tangled loosely around one ankle, and slide it up his legs. Oh, she noted absently, I guess she's already started her period. His period, she corrected herself, looking numbly at the redhead.  
For a long time she stood there, feeling lost, eyes slowly sweeping across the room without any clear of idea of what she was looking for. Finally they settled on the form of the young, redheaded girl snoring softly on the bed before her. She didn't know what to do. But there really was only one possibility. Akane made the only choice she could think of. She picked up the unconscious form of her fiance and made her way through the darkened, empty house, finding her way home.  
  
"No, Akane, no," said Nabiki, after listening mutely to her sister's story. "You're wrong, there's no way. . . no fucking way. . . that he could've been. . . that kind of shit doesn't _happen_, not here, not Nerima, and not to Ranma! There's no way!" Gone was the assurance of the night, the cynicism, the enjoyment. Nabiki couldn't remember the last time she felt this exposed, raw -- in some way she felt angry, at having her control torn away, and that anger fueled her denial. "No _way_! You saw it wrong, or. . . ."  
Surprisingly, it was Akane who now seemed calm, having delivered her recollection with an even, almost monotonous, voice. "I know what I saw," she said, "I told you everything I saw."  
"Then it was just like you said. He was having his period -- shit, can't believe I'm talking about some guy's fuckin' period! -- and that's it. Nothing more."  
Akane shook her head. "You think I don't want to believe that? I tried. All week. It's been killing me, when he was here, when he was gone, in my dreams, at school, always in the back of my mind. When I was talking to him. It made me sick, Nabiki! The thought of it, of what it would do to him -- sick!  
"The next day, I didn't know what to do. But there he was, he seemed fine, he didn't say a thing. . . and if he'd been. . . if someone had. . . he would've known, right? That's what I told myself, I made it easy to convince myself. After all, I was angry, I was still so angry at him, for everything else, and I tried to use that to forget. I tried to make him go away so that I could forget. But even as I wanted him to leave, I couldn't let him go, I had to make sure he came back: what if something _had_ happened? And now he's back, and I know, and. . . ."  
"And you know _nothing_," Nabiki insisted. "Nothing! You found him drunk, and naked -- okay. Okay. Looks bad. Could also be a prank. Maybe someone took pictures. There was blood. It was his period. Doesn't mean a thing. Nothing."  
"No, Nabiki," said Akane, eyes sad. "I checked. I had to, even if I didn't quite let myself know why. If it was his period, it would've shown somewhere. He stayed girl for a long time, his mother was here. I went through the laundry, before Kasumi got to it. Aside from the bikini, nothing."  
"That doesn't. . . maybe he. . . ."  
"What, used a pad? Ranma?"  
"Then. . . then," Nabiki stammered, inexplicably angry, hurting, unsure -- not used to having her argumentative defenses so easily swept aside, and by her sister no less. This was _her_ battleground, an arena of logic and rhetoric and information: and this time, the information was lacking, her logic failed, and what place did rhetoric hold before the stark reality of what her sister suggested? Even as she resisted, she realized that Akane's story was filling holes, removing the gaps in her carefully researched construct of that night's events; but now the full truth was something that she could bring herself to believe. Nabiki could neither back down nor accept what she was being told, not without another try. "Then -- pain. If what you say happened, then there's no way Ranma wouldn't have noticed, especially if there'd been. . . blood. He would've been hurt, would have felt the pain the next day, down. . . ," she swallowed the sudden rise of bile that stung her throat, "there."  
Akane blinked slowly, as if taken by surprise and now mulling the idea slowly, and Nabiki thought she had scored a convincing counter, until her sister slowly shook her head in denial. "Nabiki, this is the same person who's been tossed across a skating rink and left an impact crater in the concrete wall; who's been imbedded two feet deep into a rock face by a punch from Ryoga; who's had everything from explosions to poisons lay him flat: and given a few minutes, hours, a night at most, he's back up and running. He heals quick, quicker than anyone I know. Why would it be any different in this situation?  
"And it did hurt him," she continued, this time her eyes dropping and her voice lowering to a whisper. "He whimpered when I found him. Told me it hurt. I tried to believe it was the alcohol, the throwing up, or maybe something emotional, the break-up; but I was being weak again and hiding from the truth. But I can't do that anymore."  
Nabiki sank back, shocked. This couldn't be happening. Have happened. She just needed to step back, think it through, analyze -- but it was too immediate, demanded to be felt, not reasoned, and left her so profoundly shaken that she couldn't get an angle on it. She wasn't on the outside, now, Akane had dragged her in and made of her a participant. She stared at her sister, sitting opposite her, somehow looking more relaxed, if still obviously in grief, then she had all night.  
"But. . . sis," Nabiki tried. "I mean, why now, why not anymore? If you went all week, and weren't ready to believe. . . why now, tonight? What happened?"  
"Isn't it obvious?" Akane said, and pointed at the bowl lying upside down next to her. "The food. You said it was fine, you just ate it all, but you're not sick."  
"So?"  
"But don't you get it? It can only mean one thing. Morning sickness: he's been raped, and now he's pregnant, and now he's suffering from morning sickness!"  
It was too much, from the overwhelming gravity of a moment ago, to this absolute absurdity: making the sudden switch forced sharp, loud laughter from her. The suppressive atmosphere that had pervaded her room to the extent that even her breathing had felt labored immediately lifted. The rush of relief in its wake almost left her feeling giddy.  
"Nabiki, this is serious!"  
"Oh, I know, I know," she said, wiping a tear from her eye. "I know. It's just. . . oh, Akane, sis, you are just _so_ naive."  
"Excuse me?"  
"Morning sickness? This is why you're so sure? Sis, even admitting that he -had- been. . . and was now pregnant -- which is just crazy -- it's barely been a week! It doesn't happen that quick."  
"He was sick!"  
"And he ate your cooking! Maybe it was a reflex action. Or who knows what kind of crap he ate while hanging out in the bush. He might've been carrying around a mild case of food poisoning. Even Kasumi's cooking would've set him off."  
"But. . . ."  
"No." Nabiki cut her off. "It's not even worth thinking about. I mean, it doesn't make sense. How about this: he's been a guy since he has gotten back. Probably spent most of the last week as a guy, too. If he was pregnant," and saying it, she had to suppress a giggle, a half-hysteric bubbling up of released tension, "wouldn't that screw up the curse? Wouldn't he be stuck in his female form, or something?"  
"I don't know," said Akane," sounding doubtful but looking desperate to be convinced. "I don't know how the curse works. But then, how do you explain what I saw, then? In the room, after the party?"  
"I can't," Nabiki admitted. "That's. . . pretty heavy shit. I don't know what happened. Maybe it was only a prank. Maybe. . . something worse. But we have no way of knowing. Short of asking Ranma himself."  
"No!" exclaimed Akane, eyes wide. "No, never! We can't ask him, we can't tell him! Even the idea -- it would destroy him! You promised!"  
"I don't need you to remind me of my word, Akane," said Nabiki, coldly. "But do you seriously intend to keep this secret from him? If he's been taken advantage of, he needs to know. If you seriously think he might be pregnant, shouldn't he be aware of the risks? If anyone's got the right to know what's going on, it's him."  
"No! No, there has to be another way."  
"Well, then you better think of something quickly, because from what you've been telling me, he'll probably take off tomorrow, and that'll be that. For better or for worse, it won't be your concern anymore." Nabiki inched forward and grabbed her sister's hands in her own. Nabiki could feel the tightness in her stomach, the tension wrought by the very idea of what might have happened, and wondered at her sister's strength, that she could carry the secret, alone, for so long. She felt closer to Akane than she had in a very long time, brought together by the shared knowledge and responsibility of unwanted possibility.  
"You have a decision to make, Akane."  
  
Ranma dreams:  
i float along a river in darkness alone  
behind me an upward hole to rot and sickness  
further lies a pool corrupt of broken friends  
before me lies nothing.  
  
cradled in arm is myself slain and young  
blood of her womb leads to blood of my thigh  
she and I alone on the water dark  
before lies nothing  
  
forever silent clutching me  
dark retreat upon darker sea  
then (before nothing)  
from sunken depth sudden light  
above, unreachable, blinding: and a figure hovering in the unexpected egress: a duck. Chains from voluminous wings offer escape, for one. Leaving the ruined body to sink into silent waters aboard a broken raft, he grabs the link to above and hoists himself away. But at the apex of his climb his strength abandons him, the throbbing pain in his thigh resonates throughout and weakens his grip. With nothing more than a sigh he lets go, to fall back into obscurity; and before he can stumble a hand reaches out and pulls him the remaining distance, back into the light above ground.  
"Hey, watch that last step, man," said Ranko, smiling through a face bespattered with blood. "It's a doozy."  
  
"What are you going to do?"  
"Was there really any choice?"  
  
Ranma woke with a start, lingering traces of a dream fading from mind. An abiding sense of wrongness settled in its place. His ready backpack lay next to him. It was the first thing he saw upon opening his eyes.  
He stared at it for a very long time.  
  
*** Contemplation Ends ***  
  
Continues in Choices: Complications 


	4. Choices: Complications

Choices: Complications  
  
The morning sunlight was bright and the air unusually warm, the weather in sharp contrast to the stark dream images that fluttered moth-like just beyond the edge of recollection. He felt tired in a way rarely felt before, with a weariness that lay not so much within the body as within the mind. He remembered clearly the exhilaration that a decision made had brought only one week ago: but now, having again come to the same conclusion--though this time for very different reasons--he felt only a numbing exhaustion.  
Ranma Saotome sat up in his futon with a barely stifled groan. The anger that had buoyed him last week and carried him through most of a weeklong training session was entirely lacking, and in its absence lay a painful hollowness. The idea of leaving now left him feeling drained and empty; and a seed of unwanted emotions weighed heavily in the pit of his stomach.  
When did I come to this decision? Ranma wondered. He last remembered lying in the dark and staring at his pack next to him, the brisk night air descending quickly as the heat bled from the room. His pack was ready; it seemed to him as if it had always been ready; reaching back to his earliest memories, he could always recollect a heavy backpack bulging with his few belongings waiting next to whatever bed he lay upon that night. For a while I forgot, he thought, or at least fooled myself into forgetting. For a year I settled here, and this stupid pack sat in the closet, but I never took it apart, and I guess somehow I knew this day would finally have to come, and now it has, only it hurts a lot more than I ever expected. I guess I never expected to go it alone, without Pop.  
He felt unconcerned about leaving his idiot father behind; somewhere inside, Ranma felt a solid certainty that, wherever he might go, his father would eventually, inevitably, catch up and find him. Rather, the numb pain came from knowing what he was willingly giving up. The only home he had known in a decade; kind Kasumi and her father, even Nabiki; his mother as well, no matter how stressful those times proved to be. And--  
With sudden resolve he stood up and quickly got dressed. After a final check and hasty repacking, he dropped his backpack out the window. Turning his back on the easy escape, he left the room by the door. He wondered if this morning would be the last time he would ever see the Tendos. A nagging suspicion grew that today was going to be a very bad day indeed.  
Whatever, he told himself. I've made my decision, and now it's time to carry it through.  
  
The scene of absolute normalcy that presented itself when he joined the Tendos struck Ranma as both absurd and nearly insulting. Kasumi, impossibly fresh-faced in the morning as usual, was serving breakfast to her newspaper-reading father and the panda sitting at the table. Mr. Tendo acknowledged the arrival of breakfast with a slight nod, absorbed by his reading; Genma tossed the paper aside and attacked the food with chopsticks somehow held in his giant furry paw. The TV was playing softly in the background, providing morning news in a low-voiced monotone, and outside, past the sliding doors kept shut against the February winds, the faint chirp of birds could be heard. The heater, wreathed in a faint aura of oil- scented heat, glowed red from its place on the tatami next to the low-set heated kotatsu table. Ranma, standing at the entrance to the room, watched and made of the sight a memory. This is what I'm turning away from, he told himself, feeling a curious ambivalence: surprisingly intense pang underscoring muted elation; and it seemed to him strange to be confronted with such casual cheerfulness on the morning of the day that he chose to change his life in such a fundamental way.  
"Good-morning, son," said Mr. Tendo, as Ranma came forward with forced nonchalance. "Feeling better?"  
Ranma stared at him for a moment before nodding in reply. Soun had not even glanced away from his paper. Genma continued to devour his food with a decidedly bear-like appetite. Kasumi stepped back into the kitchen for more food. Ranma suddenly noticed that both Akane and Nabiki were conspicuously absent. She wouldn't avoid me, would she? he wondered, feeling a little hurt. She knows I was thinking of leaving today.  
Unless, he added, she decided last night that she really doesn't care after all. Which is all too possible, Ranma thought darkly. Either that or she thinks that I'm too much of a coward to carry such a big decision through. Well then, won't _she_ be surprised when she finds out I'm already gone!  
Feeling childish, he sighed and sat at the table and stared blankly at the back of the newspaper Mr. Tendo presented to him. Weather forecast for the week; story of a forgotten dog that followed its master's move from Aomori to Tottori prefecture; bra advertisement promising superior cleavage; talent scout blurb, Yes, you too could be a model or music star! It slowly dawned on him that his decision came with massive consequences as yet un-contemplated. Where would he go, what would he do? He needed a place to live, probably a job, and did he really want to give up the little he had achieved at school?  
It was while he considered this, mechanically eating the food Kasumi placed before him--unthinkingly, but still very much aware of how delicious her cooking was--that Nabiki came rushing downstairs. She was already dressed for school, schoolbag at her side, and as she quickly passed by it seemed to Ranma that she avoided looking at him. What's up with her? he wondered, even as Kasumi called out after her younger sibling. The middle sister, already out of sight, replied with a yelled "I have to get to school early today," and a moment later he heard the door slam shut behind her. Kasumi, unperturbed, dumped the extra food on Genma's plate. Ranma shrugged and turned back to his breakfast.  
To his surprise, his panda father stopped inhaling food long enough to dump a cupful of hot water over his own head, shifting back to human form. Pulling a convenient dogi over his bulky form, he leveled a glare at his son.  
"I allowed you the luxury of missing morning practice this morning," Genma growled, "out of respect for the torturous ordeals you underwent last night. But I will not idly sit by and allow the heir to the Anything-Goes school of martial arts--"  
Ranma broke into a cold sweat, thinking, He knows! He already knows, and I knew this was coming eventually, but not this soon, I'm not ready yet! Did Akane tell him I was thinking of leaving?  
"--to go soft on me!" finished Genma, to his son's immense relief. "I effortlessly steal a third of your meal, and you don't notice?" He presented his chopsticks with a flourish, displaying a piece of fish captured from his son's plate.  
The younger Saotome forced a scowl to conceal his pleasure, and glanced down at his plate. He noted with surprise that his food was, in fact, missing. Man, I must've been out of it, he thought. Pop's right to call me all that.  
"And then," Genma continued, "to allow Kasumi to give me extra food without a struggle? What's wrong with you, boy?"  
"I haven't spoken to you for a week, and that's the first thing out of your fat mouth?" Ranma's tone dripped insolence. "How about, 'How was the training trip, Ranma?' or 'Good to see you, son!' Is that too much to ask?"  
"Not at all," said Genma, suddenly all smiles. "How was the trip?"  
"Fine," Ranma answered guardedly.  
"Good to see you, son!"  
"You're weirding me out, Pop."  
"But why? I'm just trying to be friendly, you know, to bond a little and maybe be there for my son--"  
"Um, thanks."  
"--who's acting like some kind of freakin' girl!" Genma yelled, and lunged forward, a vase-full of cold water hitting Ranma square in the face. He blinked through the dirty water coursing across features suddenly turned softer and feminine.  
"What a disgrace!" wailed Genma, red in the face, leaping to his feet. "What did you study for the last week, the Saotome Anything-Goes Special Technique of Being Slow? The Deadly Art of Being Utterly Useless?" He stalked back and forth, gesticulating wildly, as an unperturbed Soun continued to read his paper and Kasumi rescued her flowers from death by trampling. "Ten years of training for nothing! Must I restart my disappointment of a son from the beginning? Oh, the shame!"  
This, Ranma thought, as his father proceeded to decry the flaws of youth in general and of his son in particular, is exactly how I want to remember Pop when I'm gone. He smiled broadly and stood up. "Yo, Pop," he said, cutting Genma off in mid-rant. "How 'bout I show you a little of what I've been studyin'?"  
  
Leaving his grinning father lying half-unconscious in the pond with swirling eyes and lumps on his head, Ranma headed to the bathroom for some hot water. Beating the crap out of Pop had done wonders to dispel the melancholy of the morning, and with renewed vigor he faced the prospect of leaving the house. Only as he went to slide the door open did it occur to him that, by leaving, he would be giving up the very thing that had just cheered him up; and his mood plummeted once again. Man, he thought, leaving is a hell of a lot harder than I expected. But his determination didn't waver, and he felt secure in the knowledge that he was doing the right thing. He was doing what he had to do. What others had forced him to do. Ranma opened the door.  
Akane was there in her yellow fish-cake pajamas. She was brushing her teeth.  
They stared at each other for a moment, and for some reason Ranma felt intensely surprised to see her. He recovered and bowed apologetically and wordlessly backed away, and as he went to leave she recovered as well, spitting out a mouthful of water, the corner of her mouth still flecked with toothpaste foam, and reached for the door and kept him from closing it behind him. "Ranma, wait!" she said.  
A brief pause was all Akane needed to grab him by the arm. He allowed her to pull him into the bathroom, and watched bemused as she checked to see if anyone was around. She closed the door.  
Akane looked tired, her eyes looked tired, more so than he could ever remember seeing her, almost as if she hadn't slept all night. She wasn't worried about me, was she? Ranma thought, feeling a sudden pang of both guilt and guilty pleasure. But of course she's not, he added, why would she be? She's known for awhile now that I'd be leaving, she wants me to leave, she's better off with me leaving . . . she doesn't really care either way. Akane's made that abundantly clear.  
He noticed that she was examining him with equal intensity, searchingly, and suddenly he felt strangely embarrassed by being female in front of her. A stupid feeling, surely, but he nevertheless felt acutely aware of his femininity in a way he had rarely felt before: the way his shirt tented and draped off his breasts, how his pants hung high and stretched across his wider hips; and catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror he had a sudden disjointed recollection, similar dreamlike snapshot image of disheveled hair wet and framed face feminine flashing to mind--but it slid away, ephemeral, and with it the shame he felt before Akane. A subdued anger filled its void: where does she get off making me feel like this?  
"Yo, Akane," he said, rather more brusquely than intended. "Something you wanna say?"  
Whereas she had stopped Ranma without hesitation, that confidence now seemed to escape her and left her at a loss for words. He stared at her impatiently, and finally Akane blurted out, "You're a girl," almost as if unable to think of anything else.  
He shrugged. "Yeah. Shit happens. Jusenkyo, bad luck, a little water: instant sex-changing freak. You know how it goes."  
Akane frowned. "That's not what I meant."  
He bit back a retort, feeling bad for snapping at her. Ranma turned away and reached for the sink. "I just came for some hot water. I'll be out of your way in a second."  
A soft touch on his shoulder--surprisingly timorous, almost frightened--checked him. "Ranma, I. . . I don't care," she said.  
"I know," he said, a whisper, a savage hurt seizing him, twisting his insides, and his hand trembled on the faucet tap. "That's why I'm leaving." Ranma hated himself for it, but as the words escaped he looked back, had to see the expression on her face and confirm the truth of her feelings for him; he did this despite knowing that his own features must betray him, mirroring the pain he felt inside. What he saw, so clearly written on her face, crystallized the decision within his mind and hardened his heart to the pain: mingled disgust and fear offset only by stark pity, and he wanted none of any of those from her. He turned away quickly, face burning. Ranma composed himself and straightened, momentarily forgetting about changing back.  
"That's not what I meant," Akane said softly.  
"Yes, it is," he answered, more bitter than expected.  
She shook her head vehemently. "Ranma, no, you . . . don't understand."  
He laughed. "Oh, but I do, Akane--finally! And you're right, so absolutely right. You and your friends and everyone. Well--goodbye." He went to step past her but she refused to move, and he was reminded of the same scene one week ago, with he ready to leave and she constantly blocking him. Well, I'm not going to play her game this time, he thought. With sudden speed and a bit of deft footwork, he slipped past her and through the door.  
"Where are you going?" she asked. When he ignored her and stepped away, she asked again, louder. "I'll keep asking," she promised, "louder and louder, until I'm screaming down the street after you. I don't know what you're planning to do, and somehow I don't think you are, either, but I'm guessing you're not quite ready to face up to our fathers just yet."  
"What do you care?" he retorted without looking back, his voice low enough to not be heard by the adults down the hall. "We're through, remember? You don't want to have anything to do with me. So what does it matter where I go?"  
He could feel her stare on his back. "It matters."  
Ranma sighed and turned back. "Fine. You know what I'm planning to do? I'm planning on moving away. Out of Nerima." Even as he spoke he realized he was making a choice, and that in the process of answering Akane's question he was deciding his own future. "I'll camp out until I find a job or something I can make some money off of." He shrugged, glanced down, and stuck his chest out. "If this body's been good for anything, it's getting work and free food.  
"With some money, I'll find somewhere to live, and finish school, I guess." He was surprised by his own words, but then suddenly realized that his education was important to him. He had worked his ass off to get into a public school as decent as Furinkan, and even if his current grades were crap, he wasn't about to waste all that effort. Everybody thought he was a jock moron; well, he'd prove them wrong. "If Ukyo can do it, then so can I."  
If Akane looked at all surprised or dubious of his plan, she showed none of it. "And then?" she asked. Something in her tone reminded him of a mother chiding an immature boy, and it infuriated him.  
"And then what? How should I know? I'm only seventeen, Akane! Do you have any idea what you're going to do after high school? Any of your friends know?" He stalked up to her and confronted her in a restrained, angry whisper. "I don't give a shit about later! All I want is to leave-- to leave this shit hole, and all you people screwing with my life . . . I want to go away, and start all over, and forget about all of you and the last year and a half and find a new home and new friends and never have to see either you or your friends or your family ever again . . . but that's a lie, Akane, because I _don't_ want to leave, because I'm happy here and I like your family and even your bitchy friends and our stupid school and all these jerks who keep bugging the shit out of me; and leaving here is the hardest, most painful thing I've ever done . . . and the only thing keeping me stuck between the two is you, Akane, _you're_ the one tearing me apart, because I've already decided to leave, it's the right thing to do and it's what I have to do; but you won't let me leave! Can't you see what you're doing to me? Do you enjoy hurting me? Let me go!"  
With eyes brimming with tears and so full of pity it hurt to see, she answered, "Oh no, Ranma, no, I don't, and I hope you'll never understand how much I hope you're okay."  
He believed her. The words were delivered with such heartfelt intention, from such a depth of honesty that it was impossible to doubt her sincerity. Again, however, that overwhelming pity in her eyes, and he refused to accept that from his former fiancee. I don't need your pity! he wanted to scream, can't you see I'm only leaving because of you? But how to convey the full range of his feelings, when he himself didn't fully understand to what depths they reached? Those emotions surged and roiled within just below the surface, and for a moment he trembled with the potential of expression, unsure of what he might say or do if his honest feelings were given free rein; and he swiftly turned away as he sought to master himself. Now was not the time, he refused to expose himself so blatantly to her, not when under that emasculating sympathetic gaze.  
"Ranma," she said softly, coming up behind him. "Can we talk?"  
Still struggling for control, he shook his head in the negative.  
"Ranma," she tried again, sounding hurt, "last night, you said we would."  
On your terms, he thought, is that it? I don't think so. "We're talking now, aren't we?" he said, still looking away. He remembered her words from last night: _After supper, we'll talk. I need time to think. I've been doing a lot all week, and now . . . I think I'm ready to make some choices._ But she just doesn't get it, he thought. This isn't about her anymore, and it's not her choice to make.  
"No!" she said. "Not like this. Not . . . angry. A real talk. I don't think we've ever had one, not in all the time you've been here. I'd really like to try, Ranma."  
He was tempted, there was so much he wanted to say, or thought he wanted to say, even though unsure of what that might be. But he could not allow himself to be swayed from his decision, especially not like this; leaving was proving difficult enough as it was. I have to leave, now, or she'll draw another promise out of me, and this will keep going on and on, and I don't think I could take that. I won't do that to myself, I won't do that to her. It's time to burn my bridges.  
He hardened himself, and stubbornly answered, "Well, that's funny, Akane, really ironic like, because last night, _I_ was ready to talk, but you weren't . . . and this morning, you know, I really don't feel like it anymore." He turned on her, forcing himself back to anger, the pity glimmering in her eyes an easy focus. "We had our chance for a heart-to- heart and you blew it. I'm leaving. I'm leaving. I don't need this house, this family, and I certainly don't need you, Akane, so you can wipe that pity off your face, because I sure don't want it; and you can forget about your stupid little talk.  
"We're through, and when our parents come looking to place the blame, you can dump it all on me, yeah, just like you always do: but you'll know it's all your fault. This started because I took you seriously for once--treated you like the martial artist you so want to be but will never become--and you couldn't take it." He hated himself, hated every spiteful word he hurled at her and the pain it so clearly caused her. He despised the lie, when he knew that in his drunkenness it had been he who had gone too far, and the residual guilt rankled worse than ever. His self-loathing at that moment was so deep that he grew furious himself, with the same intensity he felt whenever anyone would dare threaten his Akane; and he channeled that inward anger outwards into his words, towards his fiancee. "We had one chance to talk about it, and you threw me out of your room, you poisoned me, you made a mess of it as usual. You screwed up, and really, I don't think there's much more to say, 'cus I sure as hell don't want to live with a violent, uncute tomboy like you!"  
Akane stood as if stunned, tears freely flowing, looking so hurt-- no, even worse, betrayed--that Ranma was immediately overwhelmed with guilt. He wanted to rush forward and apologize, he wanted to take it all back and try again. He had to leave, but not like this; it had to end, but not like this . . . it couldn't end like this!  
The shock faded and she flushed red with anger, and she shook with such a fury of emotion that he flinched back against the blow surely to come. When he opened his eyes, she stood trembling with hands clenched at her side, and she pierced him with such a look of disgust and hate that he quailed inside, his chest becoming unbelievably tight, and he knew with absolute certainty that he had lost her forever.  
"Get out of my house," she hissed.  
He reeled back as if physically struck, though her words were no less than he both expected and wanted. His every insult and curse and mingled truth and lie had been to bring her to this very point, where she would finally release him. So why did it hurt so much? At that moment, an unbidden memory surfaced:  
Raven-haired pale-faced black-skirted friendly girl--what was her name?--holding him close. No, _her_ close, female flesh bound tightly in bikini red, shirt hanging open. Tears and guilt: release.  
_You-you really love him, don't you?_  
Tight stabbing pain, burgeoning nascent agony of awareness come too late.  
_Yes._  
"Yes," Ranma whispered, the blood draining from his face. Remembrance had come too late. With the same absolute certainty with which he knew that he had lost his fiancee, he suddenly also realized that he loved her, truly and profoundly. At the very same moment that Ranma Saotome finally consciously accepted that he loved Akane Tendo, he also had to accept that he had just given her up. The constant emotional buffeting of the last few minutes proved too much; everything--anger, fear, love, shame, guilt--flayed him raw from within, and he locked up, physically and mentally.  
"Yes, that's it, _yes_?" Akane stormed forward. "Then go!" she spat, and shoved him, hard, and again. He stumbled back, defenseless. "Go! Get out!"  
"No, wait!" he stuttered, trying desperately to catch his footing, "Akane, no, Akane I lo. . . ." The words died on his lips. Under that withering hateful gaze, what could he say? His shoulders slumped in defeat. He turned away. "I'm sorry," he whispered.  
And then, louder, "Goodbye, Akane."  
Those first steps were among the most difficult he could ever remember taking, heavier even then when he fled from her back in Ryugenzawa. There had been another man that time, a rival, something to drive him with righteous anger and send him sprinting across the forest. This time he had driven her away himself, and there was no one else to blame. When Happosai had stolen his strength, he had also been prepared to give her up. Somewhere deep inside, however, he had hoped--known--that she wouldn't abandon him, and she had proven him right. Though the shame of his weakness had been almost too much to bear, her presence had been a very real comfort to him, and now he understood why: even then he had loved her, but only now did he know to what extent.  
Ranma walked away. He felt light-headed. Thoughts were consumed in a subliminal buzz. He felt somehow disjointed, as if watching from outside his body's slow escape. The immediate was lost in a haze, the periphery coming to the fore; and from far off he could hear, stunningly clear, the trill of a morning bird. A telephone ring. Humming of a cheerful song. The loud clack of a shoji stone against wooden board. A stifled, choking sob.  
Hurried footsteps as Kasumi, somehow oblivious to what had transpired only a few meters away, came to him. "Phone call for you," she said, and smiled. "It's Doctor Tofu!"  
  
Ranma picked up the phone.  
"Ranma?"  
"Err, hi Doc. Listen, now's not-."  
"I'll be brief. I need you to come to the clinic with Akane this morning."  
"What's wrong?"  
"Maybe nothing. Nabiki set up an appointment this morning. She's very worried."  
"Is it serious?"  
"Maybe. Maybe it's nothing. The earlier you come the better."  
"Akane won't want to come with me. We just had a big fight"  
"It's very important for you to come with her, Ranma."  
"I'll try."  
"Good. See you soon."  
Doctor Tofu hung up.  
  
When Ranma returned from the phone call, his head a confused jumble of thoughts and impulses, Akane was gone. He heard heavy steps from upstairs, and assumed she had gone to her room to change for school. Now what do I do? he thought, and wandered in a daze back to the living room. He slumped to the ground, ignored by his father (now recovered) and Soun (enjoying a cigarette) as they continued an intense game of shogi. What do I do, he thought again, and immediately after: I love her! "I love her," he whispered, feeling the roll of the words off his tongue, how easy it seemed to say now. "I love you, Akane." His heart soared with the newfound knowledge of its desire, and for a moment, consumed by the elation that it brought, all the difficulties of the day thus far disappeared like the morning's frost.  
_I sure as hell don't want to live with a violent, uncute tomboy like you!_  
What have I done? he thought, crashing back to earth. Oh man, what have I done? He could clearly remember now that moment at the party, admitting in his drunkenness his feelings for Akane to a complete stranger. The pain of that moment had been so intense! How much worse it was now, without the buffer of alcohol, without the emotional release his female form might offer under different company! The worst, however, was realizing that despite the full knowledge of his feelings, it changed nothing. His decision was still made, and now more than ever he knew he had to leave. No matter how painful, for the good of Akane he had to leave. Surely it was the least he could do if he truly loved her, and he hoped that fact would make his departure easier.  
Nope, Ranma told himself, it doesn't.  
Before he could go, he had one last responsibility: to take Akane to Tofu's clinic, and concern momentarily displaced his sense of loss. Talking to Doctor Tofu had been intensely strange, in part because of the state of near shock he had been in as he picked up the phone. The doctor himself had seemed odd, his voice devoid of its usual cheerfulness, his request delivered in a tightly restrained, brusque and clinical tone. It must be pretty damn serious, Ranma thought, if he was able to get a coherent message across to Kasumi. Shit. I hope Akane's all right.  
Nursing this thought and drawing courage from it, he went upstairs to Akane's room. Her room seemed strangely quiet. Oh, man, I hope she's not crying, he thought. Maybe it was a good thing that he was a girl right now. His female body seemed more comforting, somehow, or better suited to such emotions. Not that he would cry. He was a man, and he had to be strong. Especially if there was something wrong with Akane. Ranma tried a hesitant knock on the door.  
"Come in."  
She looked surprisingly composed as he entered, and the look she directed his way was one of cool indifference. She was dressed for school, closing the final tie on her schoolbag. "You're still here?" Her voice, normally so passionate--whether with anger or caring--was painfully flat, and sounded, if anything, mildly annoyed with the necessity of talking to him. Anything would have been better than that neutral hollowness, so alien to her--anger, tears, even hatred directed his way would have been better. But she's already erased me from her life, he thought, just when she's become the most important thing in mine.  
Ranma nodded in reply and tried to appear casual. No point in letting her know how he felt. It certainly wouldn't help anything at this point. "Yeah," he said. "But I'll be gone in a few minutes."  
"Good," she said, and looked away. Her face was hidden from him. "What did Doctor Tofu want?" she asked. Ranma heard a slight tremor in her voice.  
"He wants us to swing by the clinic," he said, "for a check-up. Sounds pretty normal, I'm sure it's nothing serious."  
"Fine," she said. "You can walk me to school and we'll stop on the way. It's probably better that way, so our fathers won't suspect anything."  
"Good thinking."  
"Then let's go," she said. She turned around, and briefly her face belied a deep anxiety, if not outright fear; and then her previous impassiveness slid back into place. What happened, Ranma wondered, deep concern forming a tightening knot centered on his stomach, what happened while I was away? I never should have left!  
Akane reached down for her school bag. "The sooner we get this over with," she added, taking a step towards him, "the faster we can get you out of here." As she spoke those words, so painful for Ranma to hear, she suddenly appeared frozen in time; a statue in his mind; and never before had she seemed so beautiful to him. She stood half crouched, one hand grasping the handle of her bag as she picked it up, the other holding the hem of her skirt clear from the floor. Her skirt pooled around her feet, blue pleated concealment of legs that were, he knew, slim and beautiful and taut with muscle and vitality. The image burned itself into memory. Hazel eyes half-lidded and far from passionless; the slender length of pale arm exposed by the white school blouse she wore--how strong she was! Akane, a tomboy? Sure! he thought, and I'd rather have my Tomboy than any of those other small weak girls at school.  
But she's not yours anymore, is she? he added a moment later, and looked away.  
  
The walk to school that morning was among the most uncomfortable he could remember. It certainly wasn't the first walk to school with angry tension between them, the result of some previous fight as yet unresolved. Ranma suspected, however, that it would be the last. Once Tofu reassured him that Akane was fine--she had better be fine!--he would have no choice but to leave. His backpack, collected as he left the house, was slung over one shoulder. There was no reason to return to the Tendos' household, other than the single, all-important one following him; and she wanted nothing more to do with him. Her cold refusal to speak as they walked was a silent testament to that. He had tried walking next to Akane, but her clear hostility had driven him back to the top of the fence; and now, standing above and in front of her, he could feel her gaze burning into his back.  
Only a little longer, Akane, he vowed, and I'll let you move on with your life.  
Again, that feeling of absurdity as he walked, the weather so unusually pleasant for this time of year, warm enough for Akane remove her winter uniform jacket. The sun shining brightly above complemented the idle, pleasant chatter of other students on their way to school. He hated them. No, not hate, he amended, but their absolute ignorance infuriated him: how could they not understand what was happening? The sacrifice he was making, the decision he was being forced into--they didn't know, and worse, they didn't care! He wanted to scream at them, to the world at large, "I love her!" but he was afraid, certain that the returning echo would proclaim, "She hates you!"  
The trip to Tofu's was thankfully short, and within moments they stood in the lobby of the doctor's clinic. It had been a long time since their last visit. The doctor had been absent recently. According to Kasumi he had been studying advanced techniques with a teacher in China, and Ranma couldn't recall stopping by since the pressure-point incident with Happosai nearly half-a-year ago.  
There were no other patients. Ranma waited nervously, hovering protectively near the girl he loved. He watched her furtively. She stood unmoving, hands held clasped together in front, ignoring him. Despite her effort to conceal it, she clearly became increasingly nervous as they waited, and his concern for her grew proportionately.  
Finally, Doctor Tofu Ono greeted them.  
"Ah, my two favorite patients," he said, and smiled. To Ranma, it seemed slightly strained. "Long time no see."  
"Um, yeah, Doc," Ranma said. "Long time no see." Akane bowed and said nothing.  
A brief but intensely uncomfortable silence resulted, before Tofu seemed to snap out of deep thought. "Well," he said, "you guys have to hurry along for school, so let's get this over with as quickly as possible, shall we? Akane, if you please?" He took the girl by the hand and led her to a side-room, quickly returning. "And if you'll follow me, Ranma?"  
Moments later the boy was sitting anxiously in Doctor Tofu's examination room while the doctor attended to Akane. Charged with bored nervousness, he started to pace the room. Why were they here; what happened to Akane; why hadn't anybody told him? What am I going to do if she's sick; what if I'm somehow responsible? Is this all my fault, again? He stopped his idle march and glanced up at the skeleton hanging in the corner. "Yo, Betty," he muttered. "What's up?" Betty grinned at him. "Yeah, yuck it up, but it ain't funny," he insisted. He slumped down into a chair and continued to stare up morosely at Tofu's life-sized toy. The silence and waiting became oppressive, and he suddenly blurted out: "I love her--I really do! But she hates me; and I don't know what I'll do if she's sick! Hanging around ain't doing her no good, but I can't leave unless I know she's okay." Ranma sighed, and his gaze dropped, until all he could see were Betty's bony white toes at the edge of his vision, and he muttered, "You're lucky. You're just a stupid plastic toy, you ain't got to worry about this shit. Man, this sucks! I thought that when I finally figured all this crap out, things would finally get easier. It's just worse than ever!"  
"You shouldn't say stuff like that," said a sudden voice from behind him, sending Ranma flying across the room in fright, "You'll hurt Betty's feelings." Tofu, silently closing the door behind him, smiled kindly at the younger martial artist.  
Ranma climbed sheepishly down from his place on the wall next to Betty. "Where'd you learn to move so quiet, Doc?" he asked.  
"I'm the son of an unholy union between a demon of the dark realms beyond, and the matriarch of an ancient evil ninja clan; and I draw power from the ineffable forces that lie gibbering beyond the stars."  
"Wow, really?"  
Doctor Ono Tofu chuckled. "No. Actually, I have a very sharp-eared mother who loves to meddle. My room used to be down the hall from her. My childhood would've been spent on exactingly menial chores and pointless pre- arranged dates, if I hadn't learned how to creep by her room without being heard at a very young age." The doctor took a seat and gestured for his patient to sit down opposite him. He cast a quick but searching eye over the boy-turned-girl, pushed his glasses back along the bridge of his nose, and his demeanor turned professional. "Well, then, let's get down to business then, shall we?"  
Ranma shrugged. "Sure. What's up?"  
"I see that you're female this morning."  
"Yeah," Ranma grumbled. "Pop's fault. And Akane and I had a big fight before I could change back. Guess I kinda forgot."  
"Not a problem. Convenient, actually, since I want to examine your female side as well."  
"Me?"  
"Akane tells me that you're leaving Nerima. I can't let my favorite patient go without a clean bill of health, can I?"  
"I . . . guess not," Ranma answered.  
"Exactly." Tofu proceeded with a routine check-up, and Ranma sat through the initial steps, only slightly embarrassed at having his female body examined. But his patience quickly wore thin as his concern for Akane steadily grew. The doctor was cradling one slender wrist in his hand, silently counting out Ranma's pulse, when the boy-turned-girl snatched his arm away and blurted, "Doc, what about Akane?"  
Tofu blinked, concentration broken, and said, "Excuse me?"  
"Akane! What's wrong with her, you've got to tell me!"  
"Ranma," Doctor Tofu said, "if there's anything wrong with her, and she hasn't told you, then I'm sure you'll understand that I can't break my patient confidentiality with her."  
"But-."  
"Ranma, no. Would you like it if I told Akane how you feel about her?"  
"No," he muttered sullenly, blushing a furious red and looking away. He didn't resist as the doctor took up counting his pulse once again. How can I help her, he thought darkly, if Doc won't tell me what's wrong? _She_ sure won't tell me. She wants me gone. With sudden spite Ranma started to mess around with his pulse, speeding it up and slowing it down through simple meditation exercises he picked up while in China. After thirty seconds of this Tofu looked up. He locked eyes with his patient, and a steely glint Ranma had rarely seen there took him aback.  
"Getting passive-aggressive on me isn't going to help."  
Ranma wasn't too sure what that meant, but stopped.  
Tofu sighed. "Listen, I'll say this. I suggest you stay near Akane, at least for a little longer. Believe me," and here his voice suddenly sounded very tired, "if there's anything wrong, you'll know by the end of the day.  
"Now. Shall we proceed?"  
  
"I really hate this body sometimes," Ranma muttered, as he squatted and shivered and tried to urinate in the cup held gingerly beneath his female bottom without getting any on himself. He despised Japanese-style toilets now. Before the curse, he had never noticed just how inconvenient they were--for women, anyway, and he avoided whenever possible using the washroom in his cursed form. I hate pissing as a chick, he thought, but Tofu wants a urine sample and so here I am. He winced as the splashback sprayed his hand, and he cursed the necessity of squatting over the porcelain hole in the ground that served as a toilet. Halfway through he held back, clamping down with muscles he'd rather not acknowledge; and carefully putting the steaming container aside he reached for a glass of hot water. Trying to not think about what he was doing, he splashed himself and reverted to maleness, grabbed a second empty cup, shifted his stance, and relaxed once again. "I really, _really_ hate turning into a girl sometimes."  
A few minutes later he silently handed both containers over to Doctor Tofu, who labeled them and put them aside. "Thanks, Ranma," he said. "Hope it wasn't too much of a bother."  
"Not at all," the boy answered. "I mean, I just _love_ feeling my bladder shift and my testicles drop and everything."  
The doctor shrugged apologetically. "Sorry."  
"No problem."  
The doctor resumed his check-up of the boy. He worked quickly and efficiently, running through the same series of examinations--except where gender difference required a change--as he had just performed on Ranma's girl-half. At first he worked silently, Ranma sitting through the process patiently, but then he began to speak.  
"About six months ago," he started, startling the boy back to attention, "you came here suffering from a pressure point strike that Happosai had used against you. Remember?" Though Ranma had learned one of his most powerful techniques because of that incident, it had proven one of the most difficult ordeals of his life thus far. The blow to his pride, being struck down weak and near defenseless and forced to depend on the charity of people like Ryoga, how it had rankled! Even the thrill of victory, coming as it had despite his weakness, had felt hollow, for he thought the only cure for the pressure point curse lost in the battle. So much nearly given up, he had thought, because he had rescued Akane from the cyclone he himself had created.  
It's funny, he thought, smiling mirthlessly. Back then, I didn't even question why I was willing to sacrifice my cure to save my unwanted tomboy of a fiancee. Now, it was all too painfully obvious.  
"Well," continued Tofu, "I learned a lot from that incident. Actually, I've learned a lot through your injuries in general, Ranma, and encountered techniques I had only read of before in the most obscure of textbooks. After not being able to counter that weakness pressure point strike, I realized I needed more training."  
"Really? I dunno, doc, you never seemed stupid or nothing to me."  
Tofu smiled. "Thanks . . . I think. Now don't move." Ranma felt a tiny prick as the doctor slid a needle into his arm, and pulled out a small blood sample. "So I got in contact with my old shiatsu teacher, who put me in touch with his master, and without further delay I left for China. It was . . . a very enjoyable, if very difficult time."  
Ranma smiled wistfully. "I know what you mean."  
"I suppose you do. For three months, my teacher and I settled in this remote farming village, not far from where you traveled, if I'm not mistaken. It was there, a few weeks into my training, that I encountered one of the most difficult challenges of my life."  
The young martial artist nodded. "Yeah. Which was it for you? Amazons, cursed pools, deranged monks, dragon princes?"  
"I fell in love," Tofu said, and closing his eyes briefly, he released a deep sigh. "It was love like I've only known once before, deep and dark and it lurked at the very depth of my being, and it was all I could do to keep myself from throwing myself at her feet; from proclaiming my love and sweeping her away; from throwing aside everything I've ever achieved to please her, if she wished it. But it was stupid. She was the daughter of a local farmer, a young girl already betrothed to another man against whom I bore no grudge; and more importantly, whether she knew it or not, I saw that she cared for this other boy. Not to mention my own life here in Japan, and the pers--people in it, to which I would soon return.  
"But one day, as I was searching the surrounding countryside for certain herbs my teacher required for my training, we met. Or rather, I saved her. A small group of brigands were attacking her. I . . . intervened." Again, Ranma saw that momentary hardness in the doctor's eyes, and was suddenly reminded of how little he really knew the doctor. There was the kind, slightly goofy man that acted strange when Kasumi was around; and now this, a hidden depth only rarely glimpsed. Which was the real Tofu?  
"The temptation was terrible," the doctor continued. "She was so very grateful to me, and her interest was obvious, and we were alone." He chuckled. "Maybe it's presumptuous of me, but I rather imagine I appeared the dashing hero intervening in the nick of time. There would never be a better chance to declare my love to her. After all, that's what heroes do, right? But I couldn't. It wasn't right, I needed control. So I retreated from her in the only way I knew how.  
"I hopped around in circles and made toothpicks out of a couple of trees, and ran off laughing like a madman. And from that day on, every time I would see her I would act strange, until the villagers eventually learned to keep her away from me. It hurt, and it was hard, being that way; but in the long run it was probably best that she saw me like that. And eventually I finished my training there, and moved on, and returned to Japan, and her final impression of me will always be of the giggling lunatic, the bumbling doctor who passed through during her youth and never returned."  
The doctor fell silent. His gentle ministrations never faltered once during his story. After some time, Ranma hesitantly spoke up. "I . . . think you're wrong, doc. I dunno, but maybe the last thing she'll hold on to is that memory of the 'dashing hero' that saved her." He shrugged. "Seems like a better memory than some geek makin' pretzels out'a lumber. But I ain't no girl, so who knows?"  
Tofu's answer was a slight smile and tight grip. "Turn your head and cough, please."  
  
They talked very little after that. The doctor soon finished. "Well, that's it for now, so you're free to go. Akane went off ahead while I finished with you, but you can catch up with her at school." Tofu, maybe catching an indication of doubt or indecision in the young boy, added, "I really think you should follow her to school, Ranma. Like I said, just for today."  
Ranma nodded, an uncomfortable feeling churning inside.  
"Ranma," the doctor asked, "are you okay?"  
"I-," he started, and hesitated. The boy frowned. "I'm . . . scared?"  
His face strangely impassive, Tofu asked, "About what?" He sat down on one of his beds, and patted the seat next to him. Ranma joined him distractedly, eyes clouded.  
"I'm not sure," the boy said. "For Akane, of course. And about what I'm going to do. I didn't think leaving was going to be this difficult. But now that I've realized that I love her . . . ."  
Tofu nodded.  
"But that's not it," he continued after a moment of silent thought. "I mean, all that's part of it, but it's all just so big, too big for me to wrap my head around right now. This is something new." Again, the doctor waited, until Ranma felt ready to continue. "I think . . . it's the idea of going back to school.  
"Stupid, isn't it?" he snorted. "With everything else going on, I'm worried about something like that. It's just that I never thought I would be, you know, going back that is. I thought I left all that behind. I mean, sure, part of me kinda _wants_ to go back, try out some of that closure stuff Hinako keeps going on about; but mostly, I don't think I want to see any of those people ever again. But like you said, I should stay with Akane, she might need me, and even if she hates me, I won't leave her when she's hurting." He glanced aside at Tofu, but finding no indication there whether Akane was ill or not, continued. "So I've got to go back, and I wonder what people'll say and do, especially after the way I left last week."  
Tofu shrugged. "That I can't tell you," he said. "My high school days are far behind me now. Or as far behind as they ever get. Whatever else you might think of Furinkan, Ranma, and of everything that's happened recently, believe me when I say--you'll never forget."  
"No kidding, " Ranma said.  
"And now," the doctor added, "I'm sorry, but I have to get back to work."  
A few minutes later the young martial artist found himself alone and reluctant, standing out front of the doctor's clinic. Feeling uncomforted by his stopover, Ranma Saotome resumed his slow walk to school. The weather had taken a decided turn for the worse during his checkup, and a strong, bitter wind tugged insistently at his clothes, setting the trailing end of his shirt to snapping. Though still bright and sunny, dark and heavy-looking clouds loomed on the horizon. Good, he thought, finally the weather's clueing in to my mood.  
He sought determination to carry him the final steps back to Furinkan, but discovered resolve lacking within. He wavered between his acknowledged responsibilities to Akane--especially if she were sick, which considering Tofu's unusually clinical behavior seemed increasingly likely-- and his strong instinct to avoid the people responsible for his current situation. If it hadn't been for that party, he thought, and for the way those people treated me, none of this would have happened. I wouldn't have drunk so much, I wouldn't have pissed Akane off by fighting, we wouldn't have argued, and everything would still be the way it had been.  
And I wouldn't have realized how much I love her, he added, and kicked at a stone. Shit.  
Left to their own devices as his mind wandered elsewhere, his feet deviated from the proper path, and he found himself halfway to Ucchan's before taking notice. You have to do this, Ranma berated himself, and turned back. I thought I worked this through last week!  
But resolve achieved in an abstract setting proved weak, and despite believing that his week alone in the forest had brought around a state of mind from which he could confront his peers, he found himself hesitant to doing so. A week ago, storming away from his school, anger had made him superior; unreachable; and from his lofty perch he had judged his fellow students and found them wanting. They were shallow and cruel and false, preoccupied with hollow pursuits and wholly consumed with selfish desires . . . .  
And how he yearned for what they had and what they were, the acknowledgment of his loneliness and the rightness he felt at the Tendos convincing him that despite their perceived shortcomings, they possessed something of value that he had never known. Perhaps he had touched upon it during his stay at Furinkan--those relaxed moments between classes, or waiting his turn during gym, or chatting with Hiroshi or Daisuke after school; but how fleeting those times had been! I thought I found it during the party, he added, but look what came of that!  
Then he found himself before the closed black gates of Furinkan High School, and he dispelled any doubts he still had. Akane was in there, and the doctor had told him to watch over her. Concern overrode any personal fear he held about entering. As for his former friends and persecutors: he realized that, compared to the argument of this morning and the decision to leave the woman he loved behind, confronting the people who had driven him away seemed meaningless; and suddenly he was wholly without fear. I'm only here for Akane, he reminded himself, and everyone else can just screw off.  
Newly resolved, he hopped over the school wall and, seeing the clock above, noted that he was over an hour late. It struck him as pointless to head to class when it had already started, especially since rejoining school wasn't his reason for being there. Ranma could imagine the furor his late and sudden arrival would cause, the flurry of note-passing and whispered gossip that would take place; and he saw no reason to subject himself or Akane to that. Rather, he decided to check up on his former fiancee from outside. He meandered around to the other side of the school, quickly clambered up one of the tall trees lining the building, and leapt across the remaining distance. Clinging spider-like to the wall, he crept over to his old classroom. Hanging from above the window, he slowly and furtively glanced inside.  
Akane sat rigid in her seat, staring forward at unrecognizable kanji drawn on the blackboard. Frequently she would turn slightly, eyes glancing up at the clock, before returning her attention to the front. Even at a distance Ranma could tell that something was wrong: something nearly imperceptible in her appearance conveyed the impression of unhealthy tension, like a spring coiled tight and denied release. It wasn't restrained anger--he recognized _that_ expression on her all too well--but something entirely different. If people are bugging her about my return, he vowed, I'll kick the crap out of every last one of them.  
Satisfied that Akane was at school and more-or-less okay, the pigtailed martial artist retreated. Already being near the top of the school, he decided to hang out on the roof until class was over. As he approached the chain-link fence that kept students from falling off (or, as was the more likely case at Furinkan, either being thrown off or attempting dangerous aerial martial techniques), he heard student voices talking.  
Clinging to the side of his school, unmindful of the growing wind that sought to topple him, Ranma listened to the conversation. It beat listening to his own unhappy thoughts.  
  
First Boy: "So, yeah, Goda, how's Kensuke doing?"  
Goda: "Not so hot. He's still pretty broken up about the whole Ai thing."  
Girl: "You ask me, the turnip deserves it."  
Goda: "Yeah, well, nobody did, Maya, so shut it."  
Maya: "Screw you. Pass the tea."  
Second Boy: "What're you guys talking about?"  
Goda: "Shit, Jun, you don't know? Kensuke and Ai broke up."  
Jun: "No way! When?"  
Goda: "Yesterday. But it started last week. Um, Monday."  
Maya: "Big fight. Ai found out Kensuke'd been fooling around behind her back with Satomi, and-."  
First: "Satomi Ito?"  
Goda: "That stuck up bitch? Get real, Kitano--Satomi Tanaka. From class 3-1. You know, the one with the huge tits."  
Maya: "Hey, there's a girl here, you know, watch your mouth, jackass! Right. Anyway, Kensuke was all pissed off about getting his ass kicked by Yuuta, and-."  
Jun: "What the hell were they fighting about, anyway?"  
Goda: "Kiyoshi's party. Kensuke tried it on with Yuuta's sister, and-."  
Maya: "Shut up, Goda, you're getting it all wrong!"  
Goda: "Bite me. Pass the Pocky."  
Maya: "You wish. Anyway, Kensuke was all pissy and Ai couldn't give a shit, and that just pissed him off more, and they fought and she took off, but that slut Satomi came up all, 'Oh, you poor stud of a man, you,' and they took off together and-."  
Kitano: "Bullshit. I was with Satomi. She wanted help practicing her lines. With Saotome gone, she figured she might have a shot at a better part."  
Jun: "Saotome Naoki?"  
Kitano: "Moron. Saotome Ranma!"  
Jun: "Hey, that's right, I heard he ran off last week."  
Goda: "I thought he took off _two_ weeks ago to fight some Edo- period bead-chasing sword-wielding half-dog demon hiding near Kyoto."  
Kitano: "I heard it was a transvestite ninja-clan and he was undercover as a cabaret dancer."  
Maya: "Idiots. He had that big fight with Akane at the party, remember? So Ayumi told me he was so upset over the fight he decided to live the rest of his life as a woman."  
Jun: "Eh, whatever."  
Goda: "I thought you crashed the party. Didn't you see?"  
Maya: "Like I give a shit about those two drama cases? Nah, I was taking care of bozo the drunk over there while he picked his ball out of his throat."  
Ryuta Uehara: "Maya. . . ."  
  
Ranma, perched a scant meter below the conversation, blinked as he recognized Uehara's voice. He stopped listening, remembering the fight at the party and how that asshole bully had incited him to violence. Maybe, he thought, and grinned, coming back to school was a good idea after all. I might not be one right now, Uehara--but payback's a bitch.  
With a single smooth movement, Ranma lifted himself over the edge onto the roof, pushed off from a crouch and leapt to the top of the fence; fingers barely brushing the edge, he swung over and dropped down, pushing off and tumbling out of his fall. He landed softly in a crouch a few meters away from a group of students huddled next to the door leading back inside.  
He didn't know most of them, though he more or less recognized them. They were some of the rougher kids in the school, always skipping class and getting caught for smoking or dyeing their hair or other stupid things like that. Maya slouched against the wall, her skirt indecently short, hair dyed blonde and wearing makeup; Goda sat opposite her, smoking, uniform undone despite the cold, his short hair gelled up spiky and streaked with blue. Ranma had never really paid them much attention before, since they weren't in his class and moved in very different circles than him. They _have_ a circle, after all, Ranma thought. I've got more of a dot.  
But I know you, Uehara, Ranma added.  
Engrossed in their conversation, they didn't immediately notice his arrival. Uehara, sitting slightly outside the circle of friends, saw him first. His eyes widened in surprise. "Well, shit! Speak of the transvestite, guys, we've got company!"  
Everybody looked back.  
"Oh, hey, Saotome," said Goda, and gave a slight wave. "Long time. Anyway," he continued, turning back to Jun, "like I was saying, Yuuta said to Kensuke, 'You touch my 'lil Pikachu again, you bastard, and I'll kick your _ass_.'" The others gave him a slight nod and returned to their conversation and card game.  
Slightly taken aback at being so quickly ignored, Ranma walked closer. Uehara didn't look away and watched his approach with curiosity. He stood up when the pigtailed boy came near. "So, you're back," he said, with apparent disinterest.  
"For today," Ranma said.  
Uehara nodded. "Good. I got some unfinished business with you, Saotome."  
Ranma raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really?" The fingers of one hand curled closed. He tried to tell himself he wasn't going to enjoy this. He wasn't restrained by some promise this time, and he didn't care what any of these people thought of him. But for the whole series of events Uehara had started . . . Ranma didn't consider himself a vengeful man, but he knew that venting some of the tension he felt on the individual responsible for most of it would somehow feel . . . good.  
"Yeah." The tall, blond-haired boy slowly raised one fist. "See this?"  
Ranma nodded and tensed himself to spring forward.  
The fist curled open. "Here."  
The martial artist stared blankly at the open hand. "What?"  
"It's my hand, you moron!" said Uehara angrily. "Shake it already!"  
  
"Why would I want to do that?"  
"Because I'm sorry, that's why, you idiot!"  
Ranma blinked. "You don't sound very sorry."  
"Damn. Yeah, I always screw that up; I'm not very good at this kinda thing. Listen, I wanna apologize for being such a jerk at the party last week. Like I told those gimpy friends of yours, when I drink too much I get a little . . ."  
"Aggro?" said Goda.  
"Horny?" added Maya.  
"Stupid?" offered another boy.  
"Shut up!" he yelled at them, waving his fist, then turned back to Ranma. He stuck his hand out again. "So, yeah, like, I'm really sorry 'bout what happened, 'kay? Shake on it?"  
Ranma reached out. As his fingers slid along Uehara's hand, a dozen techniques flashed through his mind, wrist-locks and grapples and throws, a dozen ways to inflict all kinds of pain back onto the boy. You have no idea how you screwed up my life, Ranma thought, and for a moment his grip tightened on the bully's hand. You have no idea what you've cost me.  
"Yeah," Uehara continued, "I heard about all that shit that went down last week. Stupid idiots. Heard you showed 'em who's boss though, right?"  
"I guess," Ranma said.  
"So why'd you take off after that?"  
"I don't belong here."  
The taller boy laughed. "I keep forgetting what a _wimp_ you are, Saotome!"  
Ranma frowned. "Watch it, Uehara."  
"Oh, relax," Ryuta said. "You mean, you actually care what those bitches down there said? Man, you've got a lot to learn! Now, listen, it's like this . . ."  
"Oh, crap, not again" Goda chirped. "Not the wisdom of Uehara Ryuta!"  
"Shut up!" the tall boy yelled, "Or I'll tell Saotome how you've got a boner for his girl!"  
"Uh--what?"  
"Forget it. Now, listen," Uehara said, gesturing for the martial artist to sit slightly apart from the other group. Shrugging, Ranma did so, thinking, It's not like I've got anything better to do until class is over. The larger boy, obviously pleased at having an audience, took a seat opposite him.  
"It's like this, see," Ryuta began. "You're a wimp, because you're weak--hey, don't interrupt!" He raised one hand to forestall Ranma's protest. "I'm not stupid, I know you can kick my ass. You already have twice. You're strong, Saotome . . . but you're not tough. Not where it counts, up here." The bully tapped the side of his head. "Oh, sure, you're no dummy, and your grades are probably higher than mine, and you've got that martial arts discipline thing down . . . but you care, man, you actually buy into that shit everybody's been shoveling your way.  
"And there's so much of it, it fuckin' stinks so high, even up here at the top of the school we're surrounded by it. All those losers down there, so obsessed with getting great grades, just so they can go to some university their parents picked and graduate and get some job with some lame company they'll work at until they die. But, hey, that's cool, but those idiots _don't see it_, and that's the sick thing, they're all too pathetic to face up to the truth. So they join clubs and play games, they watch TV and write stories and do their homework and fill their tiny little brains with pointless crap, so that they never have to think about how meaningless their lives are going to be, or how they really have no clue what they want to do, and how lonely and unhappy they really are.  
"But not me. Nope. My life might be as shit as everybody else's but at least I know it. So why should I waste my friggin' time tryin' to impress those idiots below, or some teacher or my parents, when none of them want to have anything to do with me? Screw that. I'll scare them instead, and steal their lunch money because I can, and I'll make sure that no matter how hard they try, they'll never be able to ignore me or forget that I'm here. I'm here to have fun; that's why I come to this stupid school, because if anything else, it's a riot--especially when you're around. But I'm not gonna study any more than I have to, and I'll just keep picking fights and kicking ass until some Yak scout notices and picks me up, and, hey, that might be as pointless as everything else, but at least I'm having fun, right?"  
Ranma's lack of response led Uehara to scowl.  
"An unbeliever, huh? I don't get you, Saotome. I mean, you're strong. You're always fighting, hell, more than even I do. And you _crush_ your enemies! Like that dude with the umbrella. You take him down, hard, and you enjoy it!"  
"Hey! No I don't!"  
"Not even Kuno?"  
The pigtailed boy smiled wryly. "Well, maybe Kuno."  
"Exactly. That's why I don't get you, Saotome. Yeah, I've watched you around school and stuff, and you're downright _mean_ when you wanna be; and then you turn around and pussy out for the stupidest reasons."  
"It's called water, Uehara."  
"Whatever. Like that crap at the party and here at school. You were sad, man! One second, you're laying the smack down on me, and dude, that's the worst ass-kicking I've _ever_ had; the next, you're moping around all pathetic-like, going, 'oh woe is me, I sure wish I had a friend!' It's like, why? You're better than those people, stronger than them, so who cares what they think? And then that shit with Tendo, dude, I can't believe you were actually beating yourself up over that. It's about time, you ask me, that bitch had it com-."  
"Don't. Call her that." Ranma intoned, voice cold and eyes hard, his hand suddenly vice-like around Uehara's throat.  
"See," the bully croaked. "See?"  
The martial artist threw him down. "You're full of it. I ain't like you. I don't care if people forget about me, and I don't beat up people because I can, and I don't care if they like me or not."  
"Oh, that's right, you're just so much deeper than the rest of us." Ryuta smiled. "Not. Now who's full of it?"  
"Shut up."  
"Stop being such a bitch about this, Saotome, and face the truth like a man. You're not like the others, and you're not going to change that. They think I'm strange because . . . well, just because, and 'cus I'm violent and rude and do things differently than they do. But think, man--if I'm a weirdo because of my parents and the shit I do, then you--you must be the freakiest thing this city's ever seen, you change _sexes_ man, and your glow when you're pissed, and you fight monsters in your free time!  
"And don't tell me you don't like being different, because you go out of your way any chance you get to make damn sure everybody knows it. It's not like you keep a low profile, Saotome, between picking fights with the principal and inviting your buddies over to the school field so you can kick their ass in front of an audience. Hell, even I do my ass-kicking in private; you make sure everybody damn well _knows_ you're a badass. So face up to the truth, man: you're different and you _love_ it, and you're never gonna be like the rest of the flock. So stop chasing after the favor of those shit-faced losers below, 'cus it's just pathetic, and you're making me sick."  
Ranma never got to further debate the dubious wisdoms of Ryuta Uehara, however, for at that moment a deep, sultry voice interrupted. "So what do we have here?" a woman asked. "You wouldn't be . . . delinquents?"  
  
From the door leading back into the school stepped the tall, curvaceous form of the adult Hinako Ninomiya, the school's vampire-like disciplinarian. The yellow dress that fit her six-year old frame was stretched impossibly tight across her full, voluptuous figure, accentuating the exaggerated femininity that seemed poised to burst free of their scant restraint. The sheer sexuality she exuded could have been distracting, if it didn't have such a painfully terrifying source. She tossed back the long lustrous sweep of her hair with a flick of her head, and looked down at the students with a half-lidded look that could only be described as hungry.  
"Aw crap," muttered Uehara.  
"So then," Hinako purred, "who do we have here?" Fixing Goda with her heavy-lidded gaze, she ticked off one finger, drawing it languidly back. "Mr. Takemoto, how . . . good to see you again. This is your third time this month, isn't it? And smoking, too--my, you are being naughty today, aren't you?" Goda, already quivering, went white. "And Ms. Koyama, still by your man's side, I see." Maya flushed red, glancing aside at Uehara. "That color suits you, but I believe you know how I disapprove of makeup at school." She checked a third and fourth finger. "Kitano Matsushita, absent from class again; Jun Iwato, also absent.  
"And last," she said, lips curving in a dangerous smile, last slender finger curling into her small fist, "we have Ryuta Uehara. Not much of a surprise, really. Uehara and his little gang of troublemakers. I see inappropriate uniforms, absenteeism, smoking, snacking, and defacement of school property. I see delinquents!"  
"Yeah, but do you see me?" Ranma, emerging from the shadows he had faded into, stepped in front of the gang of students the teacher had been about to discipline. He wasn't too sure why he bothered, and was sorely tempted to just hang back hidden and allow her to have her way with them. He didn't care for these students, didn't care much for Uehara, and he held no grudge against Hinako--truth be told, he rather liked the diminutive English teacher and felt he had more in common with her than his peers.  
"Saotome!"  
"Yeah." Ranma shrugged. "Guess I'm back."  
"The biggest delinquent of them all," she said, eyes narrowing. "One week of absences! Violence and destruction of school property! Flagrant disrespect for school authority! And you never wear a uniform!"  
"You forgot blatant unrepentant cocky attitude," he drawled.  
Hinako frowned and turned her attention back to the other students. "As for you sorry lot," she said, "you're lucky I found a bigger fish to fry. Get back to class immediately and I may even forget this happened."  
The students needed little urging. They cleared out quickly and with only the briefest of sympathetic looks back. Uehara left last, hands thrust deeply into his pockets as he sauntered away. He glanced back over his shoulder just before heading downstairs. "Thanks for the save, Saotome," he said, and grinned. "Yo." Ranma wordlessly watched them leave, until finally he stood alone on the school roof with the angry disciplinarian next to him.  
"Alright, teach, how you wanna do this?" he asked. He raised his fists and spread out three fingers of the right hand, and two of the left. "I've got five fingers for you if you want 'em."  
"Oh my, Ranma," she cooed, blushing. "Wherever do you plan on sticking those fingers, I wonder?"  
"What? No! I just wanna poke your tits, is all!"  
"How very forward of you," she said, hands clasped to her chest. "And a student as well!"  
"That's not what I meant!"  
"Then whatever is it that you want?"  
"Nothing, dammit!"  
"Then why," she asked, "are you here, Mr. Saotome?"  
Ranma blinked. "Huh?"  
"You're not in class," she said, ticking off a finger. "And yet, you're not rescuing your fiancee. I don't see any rivals about, nor are you training, nor is the school in any kind of danger. I do believe that covers the usual excuses for your truancy, yes?"  
"Uh, yeah?"  
"Very eloquent. So again I wonder why you are not in class, Mr. Saotome? I have had just about enough of your delinquency!"  
"Aw, c'mon teach, I ain't no delinquent!"  
"Or, really," she said, sidling closer. "Well then, Ranma, why don't you share with me what makes you so special that you can attend school at your own discretion?"  
"Hey!" he said, raising his hands in protest. "It ain't my fault I miss school so much!"  
"Still blaming others for your problems, I see. Well, Mr. Saotome, your parents may not care if you skip school, and the principal might not care, and even that wonderful, handsome, stud of a man, that _gorgeous_ Soun Tendo, that--."  
"Ms. Hinako?" he interrupted.  
"Yes, well, none of _them_ may care if you slip into irredeemable delinquency--but I do. I will not tolerate this kind of behavior, Ranma. Seeing you with those other rotten apples leads me to believe that you're slipping in with the wrong crowd--and considering your usual entourage, that's saying something!"  
"That's not fair! My friends ain't-."  
"Don't interrupt me!" she said angrily. "You have gone too far, Mr. Saotome! I am tired of your frequent absences and violent outbursts; of your insults, bad attitude, and disrespect for authority; of the bad elements you bring to this school and the destruction of property that follows; of your weird behavior, strange clothes, and perverted-."  
"That's it!" he cried. "I've had enough of this shit. Where d'ya think you get off calling me all that, you chi-sucking psycho?" The last of the residual empathy he felt for her evaporated under the barrage of insults. Ever since you came to this stupid school, he thought, you've done nothing but try and make an example of me, calling me a delinquent and a pervert and going out of your way to make my life difficult.  
Red-faced, she glared back at him. "How dare you," she started, but again he cut her off.  
"Don't get me started!" he yelled. "I've put up with a lot from this school, and from you to boot! Enough's enough. Back off!"  
"How dare you?" she repeated, taking a threatening step forward, flipping a five-yen coin into her waiting palm. "How dare you take up such an insolent tone with me?" she added. "For as long as I'm your teacher, you will treat me with the respect I'm due!" The coin, held between two outstretched fingers of her right hand, faced him directly. He could even see one dark, smoldering eye through the square little hole.  
"Yeah, sure," he said, and plugged the hole with his index finger even as she began to mouth 'Happo Five-Yen Strike'. "But what if I'm not your student anymore?" Eyes wide with surprise and the coin falling from numb fingers, her anger dissipated instantly. "What?"  
Ranma shrugged. "I'm through with this place. With this school, this city, hell, with these people. I'm leaving."  
"When?"  
"Today." He nodded towards his backpack. "Everything I own is in this thing."  
"And so you're just going to drop out of school?"  
"Nah. I worked too hard to get as far as I have. I guess I'll have to come back or something, or at least call, when I find a new home somewhere and a new school. I ain't giving up or nothin', Hinako. I've just had enough of this shithole."  
She shook her head with apparent dismay. "I'm so sorry, Ranma," she said, almost in tears, and the childlike appearance of sadness she displayed contrasted strangely with features so adult and unconsciously sensuous. "As a teacher, it seems I've failed you."  
This expression of genuine contrition was the last he expected of her, and Ranma felt the familiar, though subdued, stirring of guilt at making her--at making any girl--sad. "Aw, gee, teach, you ain't failed at nothing," he said, confused that she could feel that she was somehow responsible for him leaving. "This really ain't got all that much to do with you."  
"Then why leave?" she asked.  
That she could even ask the question seemed strange to him. How could it not be obvious? Even Uehara, though disagreeing with his motivation, understood why Ranma wanted to leave. He supposed that it was inevitable that anyone, upon becoming a teacher, lost touch with the reality of students' lives; he just assumed that because Hinako spent so much of her time as a child, she would maybe have a better understanding. Then again, didn't people just as easily assume the same of him and women?  
"Why leave?" he answered. "Why stay? I mean, c'mon teach, really, what is there to keep me here?"  
"Akane?" she said, blinking innocently.  
He replied with a frown. "That's none of your business, Ms. Hinako."  
Ninomiya smiled. "Well then," she said, and gestured for him to join her as she started to walk, "why don't you tell me what makes this place so terrible." She took in the wide expanse of Furinkan, the gym down below, the stretches of sports playing fields, the trees and uncultivated bush near the far edge of the school terrain, with a sweep of her hand. "Certainly it looks a little run down in places--and you can't deny some responsibility for that--but otherwise it's a fine establishment. Believe me, as a disciplinarian, I've worked in far uglier schools."  
"Yeah, sure," he admitted, staying by her side. They walked together, along the edge of the roof, looking across the district spread out below. The wind blew stronger now, slightly cold and heavy with the promise of rain. "But it's not the place so much as the people who've convinced me to leave."  
"Teachers?" she asked.  
"Nah. I mean, sure, you guys kind of let me down last week, what with the whole gym thing and all, but for the most part you're decent enough. It's not even the Principal. He's a complete nutjob, but when he's not tryin' to cut my hair or something he can be an okay guy. Like when he tried to teach Akane how to swim."  
"So it's the students."  
"Pretty much," he said, and shrugged. "You know, I don't like the guy but Uehara is right about one thing: I'm different. From my peers, from the students in this school, from kids my age. It was stupid for me to try and fit in with them. Stupid."  
To his surprise, she laughed. "Really, Mr. Saotome, I thought you better than that," she said, and led him to the opposite side of the roof. "Listening to the likes of Uehara? Our poor tortured rebel is neither as unique nor as bad as he'd like to believe, I'm afraid. That he's smart enough--remarkably bright, in fact--to realize this just embitters him further." She glanced at her watch, and raised a hand to forestall any questions. "Just wait ten seconds . . . five . . . ah, here we go."  
The school bell rang, its musical chime announcing the end of second period. Within moments students poured from the front door and side entrances of the school, as they eagerly escaped classroom confines for a few minutes of fresh air and relaxation. Hinako turned his attention to the students below. Their voices reached him in a mix of laughter and snippets of words. "Look at them all, Ranma."  
He watched them from his perch high above, watched them embrace the brief period of freedom given them. They looked the same, the boys in their tunics, black slacks and black jacket and short black hair. Those who conformed to the rules, anyway. One kid tried dyeing his hair once, and the teachers brought him into the teachers' office, covered him in newspaper, and spray-painted his hair black again. Takenori, that was his name, had come back to class smiling, unperturbed by what had happened. The rough kids, like Goda and Uehara, had mocked him for letting the teachers do that to him. The teachers wouldn't dare try it with any of the young toughs at Furinkan, the really 'bad' students. Takenori hadn't seemed to care. The girls, at a glance, enjoyed a little more variety: they all wore the same blue jumper and white blouse set, but their hair came in a wider range of lengths and styles; their skirts all varied in length, from moody ankle-length to dangerously short; they even customized their socks, white of course, but some oversized-baggy-ankle-glue-type while others were short and decorated. Many of the girls liked their uniforms and even wore them during after-school hours. Not Akane, though: she switched into more comfortable clothes as quickly as possible, into her dogi if she could. None of this mattered. It wasn't what he could see driving him away. The surface meant nothing, that's where friendship expressed itself, meaningless. What lurked inside sickened him: the meanness and pettiness, the hollow fear and cowardliness that expressed itself as spiteful lashing out. Ranma looked down at his peers and saw nothing but cliques. Leaders and followers. And outcasts. Emptiness.  
"I don't suppose you see it," Hinako continued. "I suppose you really are like Uehara in many ways."  
"I'm nothing like that guy," he said. "But I'm even less like the people down there."  
"Do you hate them?"  
A sudden upsweep of wind caught him, strong and insistent, pulling at his pigtail, howling in his ears, school sounds muted, eyes wet against the dust. With arms stretched, he slowly turned against the embracing swirl, eyes closed, and reached out for the school below him. He felt suddenly euphoric, a bubble of laughter forming within. As his awareness touched upon his supposed peers he felt nothing: not hate, certainly not love, nor fear. The very absence of emotion felt momentarily liberating, a welcome release from the tensions of the day, and as the wind died and he turned back to Hinako, busy fighting to keep her skirt down in a vain attempt to preserve modesty, the first genuine smile he had known in over a week rose. "No," he answered, though perhaps she didn't hear. "I don't hate anybody."  
  
In the few remaining minutes before class resumed, Ranma passed swiftly through the school corridors in search of Akane. He had expected upon his return to school a greater reaction from both himself and the other students. A number of students noticed his passing--a few nasty glares, the occasional waved greeting--but as he wove through the crowds most seemed indifferent to his presence. This suited him fine, for as he looked inside he found that same indifference mirrored. Something had happened in that moment on the rooftop, the school and city and student body spread out before him. A recognition of his own isolation from it all, perhaps, but more importantly an understanding of everyone else's similar aloneness. The fragility of the friendships that held that knowledge at bay now seemed transparent, and he pulled a serene acceptance of his own exile by accepting that Hinako was right, he wasn't unique, he was alone, but just like everybody else. The only person in the entire school that mattered was Akane. He had shared something stronger with her, something genuine and true: love; and while he no longer had any claim to either her or that bond, it was through protecting her, ensuring that she was okay, that he could bring some momentary relevance to what he was doing. Once Doctor Tofu reassured him she was all right--she had to be, he refused to believe something had happened while he was away--then he could find something new to fill in that void her absence would leave. Something, anything. Ranma felt again a confused mix of emotions within, a hollow pain of loss mingled with effervescent giddiness, as he glided down the stairs to his old classroom.  
He slowed to a walk stepping onto the third floor. A few startled glances his way by peers, a teacher, muted hostility from some girls, and he ignored them and walked by, wearing a quirky half-smile. A feeling somewhat akin to what he had felt upon returning to the Tendos' after a week in the woods slowly arose. There was a familiarity here, to these hallways and rows of windows and chipped beige-painted walls. This sensation wasn't entirely comforting, school had always been somewhat disconcerting for him, but in retrospect the year and a half he had spent at Furinkan had not been all that bad. Classes were dull for the most part, certainly, but between club activities and free time and the parade of lunatics that had passed through, school had kept life interesting. He didn't think he would miss the school itself, but in being perfectly honest to himself he found that there were some people, certain faces, he would be saddened to leave behind. Both Kunos, surprisingly, and creepy little Gosunkugi as well. Ms. Hinako. He was surprised at how many people he knew at Furinkan. Guys from his club, people from Akane's. Yuka. How many of them had he once considered friends? Daisuke. Uehara. Or had they only been acquaintances, a bond even more ephemeral than friendship? He'd even miss Sayuri, little bitch that she was, thinking herself so tough, trying to get between him and Akane.  
Akane. His thoughts instinctively shied away against images unbidden arising--happy laughing setting sun glinting in hair against canal fence looking down as he floundered in water, she had pushed him overcome by her cuteness, by his heart swelling so confusedly in a chest turned female, even then he had known she was special, maybe not love, not yet at that point, but the potential, a seed germinating, and now grown to something so very painfully real, impossible and lost . . . not lost but given away. His own choice, what had he been thinking, chest growing tight, painfully, steps faltering, and he braced himself against the wall. Chipped cement rough and solid and cool beneath his palm. Ranma drew a deep shuddering breath, squeezing his eyes shut. Remember, he told himself. You're doing this for her. And yourself. Now find her. And leave. He took another moment and composed himself, but just as he went to step forward an interruption, a light touch on his shoulder, nearly timorous and holding him back. "Ranma?"  
"Hiroshi," he answered, turning to the brown-haired boy. Hiroshi seemed unusually subdued, nervous even, and his eyes darted to the side as if unable to look him straight in the face. On his own part, Ranma felt his features slide into forced impassivity as he pushed aside the recently reawakened emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. "What's up?" he asked, his tone unavoidably cool.  
His friend winced. "I. . . ." He took a deep breath then shrugged. "Not much. Just surprised you're here, I guess. It's, ah . . . it's nice to see you again, man."  
Something in Hiroshi's voice sounded artificially casual. A smile seemed to dance hesitantly on his lips, not quite able to take hold. Ranma didn't have time to find out why. He wanted to find Akane before the break ended. "Sure," he answered, and shrugged. "Listen, I've gotta go, 'kay?"  
Unexpectedly, Hiroshi seemed to collapse inwards a little, shoulders slumping, and he looked away. "Yeah. I understand." Puzzled and a little concerned, Ranma added, almost apologetically, "I've got to find Akane," to which Hiroshi only nodded, and turned away.  
Bemused, Ranma moved on. He felt worry for his friend. Another person left behind because of circumstances. Perhaps life at Furinkan hadn't been so bad after all. He no longer felt like he was taking part in some game, one in which everyone but him knew the rules. All this time, looking for something profound in places where it didn't exist, those friendships that seemed so much more real than anything he could know, the way the girls hung out at lunch by the window chatting, freely touching, or the guys swapping punches and crude jokes when together, the unconscious sharing of something common. It all seemed so impossible, like he'd been somehow excluded, whether intentionally or not--but now he saw that the friendships he'd known with people like Hiroshi and Daisuke were as real as it got, maybe not all that deep but that's all there was, in the end. Everything else was an illusion, crafted with desperation to cover up the fact that, at the end of the day, they were alone.  
The idea brought a certain calm with it. I didn't feel alone when I was with her, he told himself, the thought rising from beneath the momentary peace he felt, threatening to shatter it. He'd miss Hiroshi. That night at the party--had it only been a week ago?--there had been a chance to know him better. Everything else had gone wrong, but that short time while sitting there in drunken self-pity alone with Hiroshi, he had momentarily felt himself connect with something deeper that lay between the shallow friendships he saw at school and what he had given up with Akane. Something precious, known only rarely and maybe briefly glimpsed with Ryoga, of all people. Well, when the idiot isn't trying to kill me, he added, thinking of the few occasions when circumstances had forced an unlikely alliance and unsteady peace. Sitting in the steamy bath together after their defeat of Herb and return to Nerima, his masculinity so narrowly held onto, so nearly lost, something others took for granted made impossibly precious.  
"Ranma, wait!"  
A hand grabbed him by the wrist, Hiroshi again pulling him back. An unexpected reminder of the party night, memories seeming stronger and more insistent now that he was trying to leave them behind: _You're having a good time tonight, no matter what_, _We'll make this a night you'll never forget._ Yeah, no shit, he thought wryly.  
"Ranma, I know, you've got to find Akane, I know, but . . . can we talk?"  
"Yeah, sure, I guess," he answered, somewhat taken aback by the eagerness of Hiroshi's request. "Won't you be late for class?"  
"Like I care?"  
They stepped into an unused classroom for privacy. The door ought to have been locked, but Furinkan was one of the few high schools that did without: locked doors more often than not caused the adjoining walls to be knocked down as an alternate entrance. Anyway, between the Principal, Ms. Hinako, the local martial artists, and the slightly insane chemistry club, theft had all but disappeared from the institution's hallowed halls. It simply wasn't worth the risk. Things that weren't yours had a tendency to explode or conjure demons or release dangerous gasses. The room was dim and dusty, the air stale from disuse. Ranma slouched against a wall, backpack held between his outstretched feet. It was getting darker outside, overcast, the wind a faint howl setting the glass next to his head to vibrate; already the windows were speckled wet, though the rain had yet to fall. Damn, should have brought an umbrella, he thought. Hiroshi grabbed a chair opposite him and stared up at him searchingly.  
"So what's up?" Ranma asked.  
Hiroshi opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. He looked confused and, suddenly frowning, looked away. Perplexed, the martial artist watched but, feeling the press of time, the incoming rain, the necessity of finding Akane, swiftly lost patience as his friend fumbled for words. He leaned forward. "Yo, Hiroshi, relax, man. Just spit it out already." The boy stood up. He bowed deeply, from the waist, nearly ninety-degree position held for a 1- 2- 3- count, before rising again and fixing Ranma with unusually serious eyes. "I'm sorry, Ranma. Please forgive me."  
"Um, okay," he said. He tugged at his pigtail for a moment then added, "For what?"  
"For _what_?" Hiroshi sputtered. "For everything!" He advanced, seeming almost angry in his disbelief, earlier confusion dispelled by Ranma's ignorance. "For making you stay at that stupid party! For being such a shitty friend! For not helping you when you needed it, betraying your trust, being such a pathetic weak loser _coward_ and standing by and letting everyone tear you apart like that, it wasn't fair, I hated the stuff they said, but I didn't _do_ anything because I was, I was . . . afraid," he said, last word barely a whisper, vigor dropping suddenly from his voice, as he fell back into his chair with fists clenched.  
Ranma laughed, surprising himself. Hiroshi, suddenly scowling, insisted, "It's not funny!" which only set him to further laughter. Finally, shoulders trembling with the effort of restraint, he managed to swallow back the giddiness that threatened to bubble up again. "I know, I know," Ranma agreed, waving him down. A week ago, maybe even yesterday, what had felt like Hiroshi's--like all his friends'--betrayal had sat sourly within. Especially from Hiroshi, with whom he had shared in his drunkenness things he would never have otherwise spoken about. But now it somehow seemed so pathetically irrelevant that the contrast between the importances he placed on it, and Hiroshi did, made his friend's gesture seem absurd.  
"But, really," Ranma added, "Don't worry about it. There's nothing to forgive." Because none of it is important, he wanted to add, but couldn't imagine a way of conveying how he felt, how irrelevant school and friendships and everything else now felt to him.  
Hiroshi blinked, unsure. "Really?"  
"Yup."  
"We're still friends?"  
Ranma thought of friendship and of all that it entailed to him, and shrugged. "Yeah, of course."  
Visible relief. Hiroshi smiled, for the first time resembling the perverted jerk that used to needle him about girls. "Oh, man, I'm really glad to hear that. I've been so worried this last week, thinking you'd hate me, hate all of us, and that we'd hurt you really bad." He let out a deep breath. "I oughta've known better--you're Ranma Saotome! Nobody beats Saotome!"  
Yeah, Ranma thought. Nobody beats me.  
"It's good to have you back," Hiroshi said. "I've missed you around school. Though you haven't missed much, it's been a quiet week, even Kuno's been quiet 'cus of tests and stuff. Well, not too quiet, of course, this is Furinkan after all, and it took a day or two for things to die down after you took off, people aren't used to seeing you get violent. Well, with other martial artists, sure, but not like that, I think you scared a lot of them, and they deserved it. Assholes." But as he continued babbling Ranma only paid half an ear, thinking, things were quiet while I was away.  
Finally sensing that he was losing his audience, Hiroshi stopped talking and, with a final shrug, finished with, "I mean it. I'm glad you're back." Ranma didn't feel like correcting the obvious, that he was back, maybe, but certainly not to stay. "We oughta talk after school or something. Catch up on things, you know? On what you've been up to for the last week." It dawned on him that his friend was reaching out, as he had at the party. Ranma wondered why Hiroshi bothered.  
"Well, I better get down to the office," Hiroshi added. "Grab a note to get back into class."  
"Later," Ranma said, knowing full well that he would probably never see his friend again.  
  
Unsure of where to find Akane, he went straight to his old classroom. Classes had started while he was talking to Hiroshi, but Ranma wasn't too worried about interrupting. It would only take a minute: check if Akane was okay, tell her he was leaving, and wish her the best of luck. The same tightness to his chest returned but he felt an incipient looseness to his shoulder balance the pain; it felt like a heavy weight about to be lifted away.  
As he passed alongside the room a few classmates noticed him, he heard his name whispered and then repeated louder, the shift of seats as people looked his way and watched him through the sliding frosted windows. He smiled, cockily, loving the attention. He threw the sliding door open and stepped boldly into class.  
"Ranma Saotome, you're late," Mr. Fujimoto, his math teacher, said without looking away from the blackboard. "You know the drill: buckets, water, hallway."  
Stupid math teacher, Ranma thought, smile slipping. "Sorry teach, I'm just here to see Akane," he said, but as he scanned the classroom and the faces turned his way--some grinning, a few snickering, some annoyed, one angry--he noted that Akane's seat was empty.  
"Mr. Saotome," the teacher said, "I don't appreciate you disrupting my class like this. But if you must know--."  
"You've got some nerve barging in like this!"  
Ranma turned to the interruption. His smile tightened. "Sayuri," he said.  
With an abrupt shove she pushed her desk forward, the squeak of the legs against the floor cutting through the sudden tension that lay between them. She stood and tossed her long hair back with an angry flick of her head, and flashed a sharp, unfriendly smile his way. "Yeah. Akane's friend, remember?"  
"No matter how much I'd like to forget."  
"Wow, the jock's grown a wit."  
Ranma bit back his retort. Akane wasn't here and Sayuri was wasting his time. "This crap I don't need," he said. "I'm looking for Akane."  
"You just don't get it, do you?" Sayuri said.  
"No, _you_ don't get it, Ms. Yamamoto." interrupted Mr. Fujimoto. "This is my class, and I don't like interruptions. You know the drill: bucket, water, hallway."  
"But--."  
"Bucket, water, hallway, Sayuri," the teacher insisted. "Unless you'd like to spend the next forty minutes sitting in seiza." He turned to Ranma. "As I was saying, Akane was called down to the office at the beginning of class. You can probably find her there. Now, if you don't mind, I have a class to teach. Either grab a pair of buckets and go stand in the hallway, or disappear to wherever it is you go, Mr. Saotome. I don't much care either way."  
Later, he stood outside the classroom watching as Sayuri struggled with the weight of her bucket. She glared at him, arm trembling under the weight. She switched hands, spilling some of the water as it sloshed over the edge. "This is all your fault," she muttered.  
"You want some help with that?" he asked, grinning.  
"Bite me."  
"I'll pass," he said, and turned away from her. "I've got better things to do."  
"Yeah, like what, screw up Akane's life even more?"  
Oh boy, Ranma thought. Here we go.  
"Asshole. You're the worst thing that ever happened to her, you know that? Sick thing is, you don't care, do you, you sick bastard. You get some kick out of torturing her, is that it? Just string her along, right, like the rest of your girls, after all, we're all just bitches, isn't that it, amusement for the great Ranma Saotome. Arrogant prick. Well, it stops here! I'm on to you, we all are, and we're _not_ going to let you heap your shit on Akane anymore!"  
Surprised at the softness of his own voice, he answered over his shoulder. "So that's it, eh? Shit from shit? Is that all I am?" Something warm formed at the base of the comforting emptiness he had felt since stepping off the school's roof. Is this what I wanted, he wondered, is this why I'm giving her her say?  
"Maybe you _are_ finally starting to get it," she said, and from the tone of her voice he could picture her smirk. "You're scum, Ranma--you're insulting and violent and abusive, stupid and arrogant and perverted. She should've dumped you ages ago. Marry you? Like she'd marry a freak like you! Do her a favor, do us all a favor: run off. Run away. Do the right thing for once."  
Jagged and hot and almost beautiful in both its intensity and suddenness, rage surged through the entirety of his being, filling the hollowness within to the brim. He shook with the effort to contain it. Arms trembling at his side. Perfect recollection of why it had been so easy to leave last week, the dumb pettiness of these people made so blindingly obvious once again. Eyes squeezing shut. Trying to understand where this anger came from. Then it came: this stupid little bitch was _right_! But for him to come to the same realization this morning and act upon it was infinitely different from having the words flung at him from outside, from Sayuri, from the very source of Uehara's proclaimed stench. And then knowing that when he left, these ugly small sad little people would think that they had won, had driven him away and defeated him, defeated _Ranma Saotome_: unbearable! Yet that same realization compounded his own self-disgust, source of half his anger's intensity, because that very thought proved Sayuri right and betrayed his own arrogance and weakness. Had he learnt nothing during his week away?  
He should just walk away and ignore her, but the girl just wouldn't shut up.  
"What, cat got your tongue? The truth hurts, doesn't it, Ranma? Doesn't it? You're even shaking, how sad, you're not _crying_ are you? I thought real men didn't cry. Right? But you're not a _real_ man, are you? Real men don't cry, and they sure don't hit their fiancees. And they never, never have a period, do they? Want to grab some water, hide in the girls' bathroom, have a good cry? Feeling a bit bloated? Want my boyfriend to comfort you again? Pervert."  
And somewhere amidst the spiteful, hurtful words, Ranma felt something inside . . . click, like the final piece of a puzzle sliding into place. It was as if his anger in filling him completely had tripped some switch and triggered its own release. The anger drained away completely, leaving him momentarily exhausted. In the aftermath of this shift, during which Sayuri's words continued to assault him but signified nothing, connecting with nothing, he closed his eyes and embraced the nearly sublime tranquility that descended upon him. Like a cloud. Soul of Ice. Peace. Ranma sighed, thinking, Doctor Tofu was right, I'll never forget.  
The young martial artist turned back to the angry girl confronting him. He looked at her carefully, noting her anger at his obvious appraising gaze and not caring in the least. Half her face concealed by the sweep of her hair, having fallen while she hurled her poison at him, left one narrowed dark eye to glitter sharply at him. Both hands clutched at the handle of the bucket, straining, but in her rage she had yet to realize how tired she was. Her hands were flushed a purpled red, the fingers beyond the curve of the handle a startling white. Breasts that were slightly larger than Akane's yet smaller than his own heaved with the effort of both the weight and the anger she carried. She was, in her own way, rather pretty: no wonder Hiroshi was attracted to her.  
"What are you looking at?" she hissed, eyes narrowing.  
"Nothing." He stepped closer. "At all."  
"Oh, ha ha," she answered, and then, as he came to stand before her, forcing Sayuri to look up to match his stare, "You think you can intimidate me?"  
"Not at all," he said, with the hint of a smile.  
"I'm not scared of you."  
Ranma leaned in, bringing his face close to hers. "Of course not, Sayuri," he whispered. This close, he could smell the faint sheen of sweat breaking out as she struggled with the bucket, an undercurrent to the floral sweetness of her long hair. She smelled different from Akane, more . . . girly, he thought, more ordinary. She trembled at his closeness. But not with fear.  
"Get away from me, you asshole," she hissed. Sayuri tried to swing the bucket against him, maybe splash him with water, but found the movement checked. He held the bucket firmly in place; she might as well have been trying to move the wall. "Let go!"  
He pulled back a little. She really wasn't frightened of him in the least. Rather, she shook with revulsion at his nearness. That she could feel such intense hatred nearly frightened _him_. "What," he asked, voice tinted with wonderment, "did I ever do to you, Sayuri? How can you possibly hate me so much?"  
"You're a violent pervert, that's how."  
"Bullshit. I'd never hurt you, and you know it."  
She snorted. "Yeah, whatever. Like it matters. This has nothing to do with me."  
"Noth--? Then why--?"  
"Because of Akane, you moron!" Sayuri dropped her bucket. She poked him hard in the chest as she spoke, emphasizing each statement. "Because she's my friend--my best friend! You have any idea what that means? Do you? No, of course not, you don't have any friends, you freak? Friends are special, Ranma, there isn't much I wouldn't do to help a friend in need--whether they realize they need it or not."  
"Like Akane?"  
"Exactly. Like Akane. Akane, who tells us how she really feels. Who comes to us after you've screwed around with her head and heart--again. After you've insulted her. Broken a promise. Embarrassed her. Put her down. Belittled her accomplishments. Run off with your other girls. Broken her heart. After you've taken off, who do you think picks up the pieces?" Now it was her turn to tremble with barely restrained anger, livid hatred suffusing her gaze. Now empty of his own rage he felt cold and weak before her, taking a step back as she advanced on him. "It's all games to you, right? Fun and games. Yeah, well, while you're having fun, real people are getting hurt! Hurt in a very real way . . . and when you hurt Akane, you're hurting me too! Me, you're hurting me too, you jackass, do you get it, _me_." Her fingers curled into a small fist and she pounded him in the chest. It didn't hurt, of course, she couldn't hurt him, but he still fell back a step before her.  
Sayuri pulled her fist back and stared up at him, red-faced and breathing heavy. He was surprised to see her eyes flecked with tears. "This has nothing to do with me," she repeated. "It's about Akane: I won't stand by and let you hurt her. I know how she feels. I'm her friend, she talks to me, I wouldn't be her friend if I just stood aside and let you tear her apart. Poison her. Whatever she thinks. Whether she realized it or not, the week you were away was the happiest I've seen her in months. You understand? The week you were _away_."  
Ranma held her gaze for a long time. He nodded once. "I'm sorry," he said, softly. "I never meant to hurt Akane; I never meant to hurt you." Then he sighed and, after a pause of hesitation, leaned in close, bringing his mouth near her ear. She didn't flinch away; it seemed much of her anger had drained away as well. "But can you keep a secret?" he asked, whispering. "I know you'll never tell her. Akane. I love her, Sayuri." He smiled sadly. "I love her."  
With those words Ranma turned and walked away. He didn't look back, though he imagined he heard the girl call his name. What he had believed in anger a week ago he now reaffirmed in cold apathy: he was finished with Furinkan High School.  
  
When he descended to the school office he discovered that he was too late: Akane had already left. She had received a phone call from Doctor Tofu and had requested permission to leave the school. "She left about ten minutes ago," the office clerk told him, "and she wanted me to tell you. I told that Hiroshi boy to pass it on to you; I guess you missed each other?"  
As Ranma left the school behind him at a hurried walk, he felt the earlier worry that had haunted him all morning return. Between Uehara and Hinako, Hiroshi and Sayuri, he had managed to momentarily displace his concern for Akane. Called back by Tofu? Something serious had to be wrong. He nearly broke into a run but an uneasiness that bordered on fear stayed his legs and held him to a brisk walk. She couldn't be sick. The doctor just wanted to tell her in person. Akane was fine. In returning the same way he had come before, the day felt strangely disjointed, as if the morning's walk to school belonged to a different reality--a different morning, a different Nerima, a different Ranma.  
Far too quickly, it seemed, he stood before Doctor Tofu's clinic. He reached for the door but hesitated, feeling inexplicable apprehension. Stepping aside he leaned heavily against the wall, drawing strength from its solidity. He closed his eyes and tried to calm his hurried breathing. This sudden nervousness didn't make sense. When, he asked himself, did everything become so complicated? For a year everything had been fine. Fun and lighthearted and without consequence, it seemed, the way things ought to be. The ways things ought to be was: Nabiki's condescending smirk as she drained his wallet, a mischievous glint to her eye; the smell of Kasumi's fresh baked bread and the delicate song of her whistling as she brought vitality to the household. His idiot father's fumbling and Mr. Tendo's tears. A pervert's stolen panties; a cute piglet with a grudge; a two-meter long spatula. Martial-arts: ice-skating, take-out food, tea ceremony. Rivals. And fights in which nobody got hurt, not _really_, they were all so good and he didn't hate anybody, why would he try and hurt somebody and force consequences that weren't necessary? That's the way things were.  
Well, maybe not always, he grudgingly admitted. Herb had been serious--deadly serious, and dangerous. Kumon Ryuu had meant to kill him in revenge for the very real death of his own father. Losing his strength to Happosai hadn't been fun, at least not for him. Sometimes when his mother visited it hurt inside, the idea that she could kill him even more so; how could he live in fear of his own mother? Pantyhose Tarou's first visit, that arrogant jerk. Ryugenzawa. Sometimes everything became painfully real and serious, as if a dark undercurrent to his life--one only hinted at in passing and rarely seen--reared its head and thrust itself violently into awareness, shattering some fragile shell of fun complacency he had constructed around himself. Yet wasn't it in these moments that he shone brightest, when he felt the most alive?  
Akane. That was the way things ought to be.  
Tomboy. Short hair. Upturned nose. Brown eyes. Idiot! Forgiving. Rarely seen smile. Do you want to be friends? Pervert! Fiancee. Mine. Cute--she really is cute. I hate boys, I hate you, I wish we'd never been engaged. Walking hand in hand. I don't mind. Thank you, Ranma. Nothing said. No need. You think this is easy? I dare you to. If I didn't care. [More snippets-check manga-check order.]  
Ranma opened his eyes. The sun of early morning was now overcast behind threatening dark clouds. A wet wind blew persistently promising heavy rain and femininity. Far in the distance the sky grumbled, something bright and powerful and hidden flashing. In contrast to the chaotic potential that hovered on the horizon, his mind felt at peace. It was the first time in a very long time. Rather than the empty calm of this morning, he felt a relaxed sense of acceptance. He smiled, without bitterness or irony or subtlety. Nerima was again spread out before him, but unlike this morning he viewed it from the ground and felt a different empathy for this town he was resolved to leave behind. He felt no hatred towards this place he had lived in for the last year and a half; rather a diffuse warmth as he wandered his eyes across the houses and fences and narrow cobbled walkways filled him. For the short time in which Ranma leaned against the wall and watched without contemplation the quiet life of the town before him, he felt content. He regretted none of the choices that had brought him to this very point, where he must now check one final time upon the woman he loved before turning away and leaving both her and this city he had just embraced, behind.  
Without hesitation, he stepped into Doctor Tofu's clinic.  
  
With the clouds blocking the natural light from outside, the clinic seemed darker than usual, more somber and stifling. The ceramic chime of his entry felt unnaturally loud under the smothering quiet that enveloped the room. Even the whistling of the brewing storm's wind had quieted and turned deathly still. There were no other patients, nor any sign of the doctor or Akane. Ranma's every sound and movement seemed amplified by the surrounding stillness.  
He stood there confused for a time, taken aback by the lack of reception. It was as if Tofu had left and forgotten to lock the door behind him. And where was Akane? Ranma knew that he couldn't have arrived more than ten or fifteen minutes after her. As he stood there he slowly shook off the stupefying numbness the unexpected quiet had caused, and as he did he gradually became aware of other sounds within the clinic. Urgent whispered voices. Subdued sobs and subtle movement the next room over.  
"Doctor Tofu?" Ranma called out. "Akane?"  
There was a brief but abrupt cessation of noise, then Tofu's voice called back. "One moment please. We'll be right out." His voice had that same hollow ring to it as this morning, forced clinical professionalism that came so unnaturally to the doctor.  
It took a full minute for them to emerge, the measure of time kept by the hammering of Ranma's heart. Tofu walked first into the room, and a beat later Akane followed. Akane, cheeks wet with tears that no longer flowed. Face bloodless aside for the redness of her eyes and nose. Her hands fluttered in the folds of her school uniform, twitchy and restless, worming their way close to her body before falling limply at her side. He sought her eyes but they slid away, afraid and pained, unable to meet his gaze.  
They stood there in a frozen tableau, the martial artist facing both the doctor and Akane. He had no idea for how long. Nobody seemed ready to speak first. Ranma felt light-headed, once again disjointed, almost as if he was watching the scene from outside rather than being a part of it. Watching as the young pigtailed man first turned worried eyes onto the doctor, then the crying girl, and finally went to speak.  
"Doctor?" Ranma asked, his mouth painfully dry. He never stopped looking at Akane. No force on earth, he felt, could have made him look away. "Doctor, what's wrong?" With Akane, he couldn't bring himself to add.  
"Akane is fine," Tofu answered after a long pause. "Akane is . . . fine, Ranma."  
She slowly raised her head, her bloodshot eyes finally making contact with him. The visceral pain and fear and . . . pity he saw there was overwhelming, he nearly flinched and backed away but suddenly movement became impossible, he was rooted to the spot. His legs felt weak and standing became an effort. He realized he was shaking.  
"Then what's wrong?" Ranma asked, the words sounding as if someone else had spoken them.  
"Ranma," the doctor said, taking a step forward, his voice at its most professional. "I don't know how to say this. Something happened to you a week and a half ago. At that party you went to." But then his voice failed, and though Ranma could still feel the doctor's eyes upon him no further words came.  
He waited and waited and finally when neither Akane nor the doctor continued, he demanded, "What?" in a voice filled with, Ranma realized, burgeoning panic. "What is it? Was I poisoned? Robbed of my strength? Do I have a week to live--what? Is it another curse, magic--"  
"You were raped," Akane whispered.  
Sound seeped back into the room--abrupt ticking of a clock; subdued violence of the growing storm outside--somehow more real than the doctor and girl confronting him. More real, it felt, that Ranma himself.  
"Raped?" he echoed, the word meaning nothing.  
"I found you, Ranma," she continued. "At the party. In the room. You were naked. And female. There was blood. Your blood. On the bed sheets. On your legs." She took a deep breath. "And your thighs. You were nearly unconscious. You said it hurt, that you were in pain."  
Tofu continued. "This morning's tests prove it true. There's hCG in your blood and in your urine, Ranma. Both bodies, somehow, even when you're male. I was very thorough with the tests. Believe me."  
Ranma slowly looked away from his former fiancee and turned empty eyes onto the doctor. "I don't understand."  
Only then did Tofu's rigid facade fall away. With sad, carefully measured words, he explained: "Ranma, you're pregnant."  
"Pregnant?" He didn't understand what they were saying. There was a faint buzzing at the edge of his senses distracting him. Nagging and growing in intensity. He shook his head to clear it but it remained insistent. Immediate. He felt the need to sit down but still felt unable to move. Needed to take a deep breath but found it caught in his chest. Couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Stifling, growing hot, painfully so, murmur in his ear growing to a roar, loud and consuming as the room grew darker and darker. I don't understand, he wanted to say. Tried to say. But he couldn't think and the words died and he felt himself falling.  
"Ranma," called a voice from far away. Akane was next to him. Standing so very close even as the room behind her seemed to draw back. He tried to focus on her voice. Found it impossible. His vision refused to settle, slipping desperately across the mundane features of the room: chair wall painting magazine sofa. An absurdly loud sound filtered through the roar to his ears. His own. Air sucked down through clenched teeth.  
"Ranma." Akane's voice reached him again, soothing but urgent. He turned to her. Met her eyes. "Ranma," she said again. Amidst the turmoil surrounding him her eyes provided an unexpected relief, breathing relaxing and sound draining away, made insignificant by the brown eyes that held him secure, something solid beyond his own unstuck center. "I don't know how but you'll be okay. We can make it through this somehow." She brushed one hand softly against his cheek.  
"Don't touch me," he said in a dull, flat voice, and suddenly realized that he _could_ move, flinching violently, instinctively slapping the touch away. A staggering step, impossible to find solid footing, the ground swaying wildly beneath his feet, vertiginous tilting as he fell back. He felt Doctor Tofu reaching for him, words lost in the surging rush in his ears. "Don't touch me!" he screamed, throwing the man aside and stumbling, collapsing onto a wooden bench meant for patients, how many people had sat in this very place, how much filth and illness and incipient death was he sitting on? The thought made him sick and cold, he leapt to his feet and stood there shaking, gasping for breath, the noise redoubling in his head as he looked wildly about, wondering where Akane and Tofu had gone, knowing then that he was alone, truly and fundamentally alone and lost.  
His perception shattered. Like a sequence of snapshots, intermediate moments lost. Fragments, causality gone. Viewed from outside. Standing by the couch. Trembling. Eyes wild. Bent over doubled. Middle of the room. Clutching his stomach. Insides churning, pain, revulsion. Numb thud. Shoulder dull, staggering into the wall. Akane, stepping towards him. Held back. Doctor Tofu, clutching his side. Eyes steely, glinting bandit-hard, watching him warily.  
"Ranma!" The doctor's voice a whisper nearly buried by the pounding in Ranma's head. "We want to help you," he said. "We can help you." But again his words meant nothing. None of this meant anything. There was nothing left. Except for those eyes, brown and soft, pained, pitying. Pity.  
Everything resolved into this single moment when, through a supreme effort of will, Ranma Saotome brought everything back and momentarily halted the chaotic unwinding of his person. Through recollection of his original purpose, he held himself together and turned back to the doctor. "Akane is really okay?" he asked.  
The doctor nodded.  
"Then I have to go," Ranma said.  
He left Doctor Tofu's clinic.  
  
Ranma Saotome stood outside the clinic. Empty of thought, insensate. He breathed, eyes open, neither trembling nor wavering; yet lost within himself he was aware of nothing. He remained that way for some time. Slowly he returned to his senses. The wind whispering over and around him, rushing through and tickling his arms, pulling his clothes. Faintly grainy and wet, carrying dirt and coming rain. Tingling with the storms potential. Then a faint bouquet of cut grass, smoldering rubbish, exposed canal filth. It sat bitter on his tongue, acrid and unpleasant. As the wind faded a medley: the far off grumble of thunder, loud voices raised in argument, sharp drilling of nearby construction. Then he saw Nerima once again; and between the angry brown skies roiling above and the dirty windswept street and the hurried people walking face down unaware of anyone but themselves, he felt a deep, profound disgust well up within. He stood, unmoving, unable to move, perfectly still, and yet as his disgust boiled over into physical revulsion he began to shake. First one leg, vibrating slightly, uncontrollable, growing in strength, spreading, reaching up through his thigh, the pit of his stomach, a dull, numbing detonation there that quickly consumed the entirety of his being and left him trembling to the furthest reach of every limb.  
The young man took a single step forward. Another. The disgust he felt as a physical thing subsided with movement, but in the absence of pain the inevitability of thinking slowly returned:  
Akane. Saw me. Naked and female. Stripped in the dark. Lying passed out and defenseless. With blood on the bed sheets. Blood my blood my legs my thighs. Is she okay Akane doesn't need me anymore. She knew all along but couldn't tell me why. Those soft brown eyes always filled with disgust and pity. Pitied me before but at least she hated me as well. Now she can't even hate me 'cus I've lost it, lost everything. Oh god it's gone it's gone with everything I was meant to be. A man among men martial artist heir to the family's Art pride and honor. Who couldn't even protect himself, how could this happen, what did I do, why--why? They all told me, jerk Casanova pervert tease babe bitch slut--only a joke, a joke! Acting playing around even with Hiroshi I never meant anything, I'm a man even with the curse. Bunny suits bikinis bras and panties and strip tease pride didn't mean anything--it was just in fun! How could it be fun, being a man I know what others think, what was I really playing at? Toying with them, is that it, knowing I'm always better than they could never hurt me even touch me, ever. Yeah, 'cus I'm Ranma Saotome of the Saotome School of Anything Goes, the best ever even when I'm a goddamn girl! Goddamn weak fragile flawed stupid stupid _stupid_ cursed girl's body, won't slow me down, I'll make damn sure everyone still respects me! Knowing what you sick idiots think you can take Ranma made weak by smooth skin soft curving legs ass tits and wet cun--no! No no oh god no I was playing, not that it can't be because I'm a man among men don't cry don't cry, _stop_! Stop that weak girl's like crying Ranma be strong and take it like Pop taught you with those cats in the pit in the dark. Dark smell of fur fish fangs feline fists reaching for pain, that's it, again and . . . again, yeah, that's it, pain kills the thinking ends the tears. Tears are for sissy weaklings and I'm strong like Pop raised me to be a man among men did this to me Pop I let you down. Lost it all Pop ever wanted was his son rising high I failed Pop I'm sorry I'm sorry Dad oh Dad what am I going to do now? Now I've lost Dad and Mom's promise and Akane, Akane how can I protect you when I could not even save my Art failed me ripped and torn away. Tore into me, who did, a man, a man's hands on me, touching me, a man, feeling me, a man, stripping me, a man, inside of me inside of me a man, no no Akane, no, Dad Mom, please, there's something inside me a man tore me opened me used me spread me screwed me fucked me he . . . raped me. He raped me. Taint left deep within can't be reached for it grab punch claw it out from inside too deep I'm too dirty again I'm running away. Trying to run doesn't matter how fast how far I reach inside I'm filthy and weak like a stupid girl. Like everyone said I'm a girls flaunt and flirt with boys just like I did. Always all my fault I'm a dirty useless girl. Saw it from the beginning. Pity's all I deserve. Can't do this. Not alone. Akane.  
Through this spiral of thoughts he punched through into an awareness so sudden and intense that he momentarily felt propelled above his foreign surroundings. Details so sharply realized that understanding became painfully impossible rushed past as he continued running headless of direction or destination. The pounding of his heart and burning of his lungs served as testament to his desperate flight, head and arms and chest and stomach dulling aching where he had punched and clawed himself. Tear- streaked bared-teeth headlong dash towards exhaustion, utter body-weary soul-numbness the only possibility of relief, his mind once again empty of thought but for a single repeated word. The coming storm swirled above him and the winds chased him but nothing could touch Ranma as he fled Nerima.  
  
Continues in Choices: Decision 


	5. Choices: Decision I

Choices: Decision, part one.  
  
by Michael Noakes  
  
The rain drummed a staccato beat against the windowpane. Hiroshi stared listlessly outside, watching the falling rain, watching the trees sway noiselessly in the distance. He traced the path of a single drop with an idle finger, its seemingly random path, and the glass felt cool beneath his skin. Under his touch the bead of water changed course; it was absorbed by a larger droplet and carried away.  
The boy sighed and leaned his forehead against the window. He closed his eyes. Ms Hinako droned on somewhere in the background, and despite being in her adult form she sounded just as weary as he felt. Half the class was already asleep at their desk as the clock continued its heavy ticking march towards the end of fourth period. Then lunch. Free time followed by cleaning the school. Back to class, two more hours, club activities. Home then dinner, study then sleep. Lather, rinse, repeat. Hiroshi sighed again: even in a school like Furinkan it sometimes seemed all so predictable.  
In quiet moments like this, Hiroshi felt he could see the entire sequence of his life stretching before him. Sometimes he enjoyed imagining the possibilities. For example: his relationship deepening with Sayuri, they marry soon after graduation; supporting him as he struggles through a second-rate Tokyo university, she eventually quits and stays at home and raises their children as he joins with a large firm, another be-suited soldier of human resources. A good husband and father, he retires after forty years of hard work and recollects the golden days of his youth in high school.  
These are my golden days?  
Maybe soon after graduation Sayuri would realize how much of a geek he was and dump him. Left reeling, he'd redirect his agony into effort and lose himself into study and manage to enter a top-flight university. With these heightened prospects he would be recruited by a major international corporation. Rising swiftly through the ranks, he would nevertheless fear that adolescent pain and never again connect deeply with another woman. Older and richer (and possibly with an ulcer, though Hiroshi wondered if that might be over-the-top), he would one day retire and cynically reflect on his high-school heartbreak.  
Yeah, sure, Hiroshi thought, grinning ruefully. Who am I kidding? Top-flight university? Unlikely. Getting dumped? Quite probably.  
These unexciting thoughts appealed to him more than the occasional wild flights of fancy. It was fun imagining himself being bitten by a strange radioactive insect and suddenly gaining superhuman powers allowing him to go toe-to-toe with Ranma and his friends in hand-to-hand combat . . . but it also seemed silly. Hiroshi knew he was not a hero. Enough sideline encounters with the daily insanity of Ranma's life had taught him that. However: something inside yearned terribly for a chance--just _one_ chance--to test and prove himself. To Daisuke. To his parents and to Sayuri. To himself.  
I had my chance, he told himself, and I missed it. I wanted to be a hero, but I always imagined it would be something grand, something obvious: grabbing a cute girl out of the path of an out-of-control truck, maybe. But when Ranma was hurting, and my buddies were insulting him behind his back, and making rude comments about his curse, and talking about making a _real_ girl out of him; and all those girls spreading rumors and lies: _that_ was my chance to prove myself. I could have stood up and taken his side. I could have said something--anything!  
But when the person at the front of the whole campaign is your own girlfriend, what can you do? I really like Sayuri, he thought miserably, and I _think_ she really likes me too. Ever since the party--ever since Ranma's absence--their relationship had been steadily deepening. Who would have thought, he added with some wonder, that a popular girl like her would see something in a dork like me? But she does, and when we're together and alone it's great.  
Being her boyfriend at school was a different matter. She wasn't exactly _cold_ to him, but compared to the affection she showed when they were alone, it felt chilling, and almost painful--that it even pained him came as a surprise. Not that he could blame her: he'd probably be embarrassed to be seen with himself too, if he was that popular. Then there was the way she tore into Ranma today and ended up hauling buckets. He knew he would be hearing all about it at lunch. He remembered the stupid bet he made with Daisuke a week ago and felt like a jerk. He felt like a loser. Not like someone he'd want to have as a friend.  
Hiroshi shifted, the cool spot where his forehead touched the window growing uncomfortable. A break in the teacher's monotone recital pulled his eyes forward. The students at the head of each row were passing back worksheets. Woo hoo, he thought. More mindless busywork. At some time during his distraction Hinako had reverted to her youthful form. In the brief free time while the students collected their class work, she stared outside with such a serious, pensive air, the skin between her eyes pinching into a cute little 'v', that it appeared comic on such a childish face. He followed her gaze, and saw only the falling rain and half- concealed trees.  
He turned slightly, and saw himself vaguely reflected in the window. A slight shock ran through him at the expression on his face--  
_"But, really," Ranma said, "don't worry about it."_  
--and he realized that maybe Ranma had been feeling something very similar as he waved off the earlier apology. Feeling something similar--to what? Hiroshi suddenly lost confidence in his friend's reassurance. Something in Ranma's expression, something in his _own_, left Hiroshi uncertain.  
It was usually at home, in the mornings during his shower, at night in those empty minutes before sleep claimed him, that he allowed his mind to wander and craft silly visions of a mundane future. He never did it at school. Every time he tried, the possibilities seemed to unwind and fall apart, the myriad paths different friends and encounters allowed for, the choices, proving too much to hold in his mind. His imagination couldn't cope.  
I wonder how Ranma is doing, Hiroshi thought, watching the rain grow stronger. I sure hope he's okay.  
  
With each step, the water captured in the folds of her furled hood overflowed and trickled coldly down her back. The skirt of her uniform was soaked through to appear nearly black; her wet hair clung tenaciously to her scalp. The rain stung her eyes. Blinking rapidly as she hunched into the storm, she walked home. Through the fence she watched the canal's swift flow, its rain-dappled surface, and the refuse riding the water away. The metal tip of her umbrella scraped the pavement at her side.  
I can't do this, Akane Tendo thought. I can't--how can I just walk home? She imagined herself at home, dry, with her sister, comfortable, with a steaming cup of green tea clutched between her hands, warm, and with her father, safe. . . . Her already trudging walk faltered. She suddenly felt weak and had to lean heavily against the fence. The metal was wet and slick and coarse against her skin. Her fingers found purchase among the chain links and kept her propped up as she sank into a crouch. She suddenly realized that she was crying, but the downpour made it impossible to tell.  
_"Akane is really okay?"_  
Under the rain's incessant fall, her plaintive cry went unheard.  
  
"Then I have to go," Ranma said. Without another word, he turned away and left. The noise of the door sliding in its railing, wood against wood, metal rollers, sounded clear in his wake. A windowpane rattled in its frame as the wind outside gained strength.  
She stood next to Doctor Tofu. The man groaned as he regained his feet. Her mouth opened and closed wordlessly, struggling to speak. One hand, raised in vain to-- she didn't know, to stop Ranma from leaving, maybe, to reach out and comfort him-- how do you comfort someone in a time like-- he's been ra-- how can he be pre-- was he worried-- I just wanted to touch him and let him know he isn't alone! she thought, and her arms fell limply at her side.  
"Ranma. . . ?" She found her voice, barely above a whisper, but too late.  
The wind breathed through the room, its sound hollow and quavering. Tofu stepped past her and closed the door the rest of the way. He did not look outside. Wind severed, the room sank back into deep silence. The doctor stayed at the door, his back towards her, his hand resting heavily against the dark grain of the doorframe. His shoulders trembled slightly.  
"Don't go," Akane finished, louder but too late.  
Bikini bottom twisted around a girl's ankles. Naked, bra-like top tangled in the crook of one elbow. The smell of the room had been pungent, the air heavy. Even after two weeks, the image remained painfully clear in Akane's mind. She feared it always would. There had been details she had refused to see at the time. Marks across the girl's shoulders and upper arm, and back, parallel lines pale against her skin, reddening at the edges: scratches, and heavy grip marks that her training told her fell just short of bruising. Straightening out and pulling the swimsuit up the girl's legs, how could she not notice the blood, still not quite dry, speckling the inside of her thighs? I should have told someone earlier, Akane thought. Tugging the bottom over her hips, the matted hairs of the girl's pubic region had glistened in a way that Akane's inexperience could not then understand.  
I should have told someone about her! she thought, and took a weak step forward. She suddenly felt ashamed. Ranma's _not_ a girl, she told herself. She tried to draw some strength from that fact. Another step. The image would not leave her mind. Ranma, half-unconscious on the bed. Naked flesh obscenely vivid against the sheets, a pallid contrast in the dark. The room had seemed so _hot_. Akane had never seen Ranma spread out so defenceless before, nor seem as weak and helpless as he had then; her stomach twisted and dropped at the thought. Tightly balled fists pressed forcefully into her sides, straining in vain to reach the source of her pain. Akane's vision dimmed, and a rushing sound assaulted her ears. She fell to her knees. She felt her bile rise. She vomited on the floor of the clinic.  
A solid hand on her shoulder brought her back. She looked up through blurry eyes at Doctor Tofu. His cheeks were moist but his features were reassuring.  
"She's a boy," Akane insisted firmly.  
"Yes he is," Tofu agreed, and pulled her up.  
"But that doesn't make it any better," she said. With the back of her right hand, she absently wiped the bile from her chin. Her wrist ached where Ranma had slapped her away. "It doesn't make a difference."  
"I don't think it does, Akane," Tofu said.  
She stared at the closed door. She remembered Ranma's departure. He had seemed so lost and confused. His eyes had never been that empty. An uneven beat started against the ceiling: the first heavy drops of the incipient storm.  
"It's raining," she said numbly. "Ranma shouldn't be out in the rain. Not without a coat." She went to take a step forward but found her movement arrested by a strong grip on her arm. She glanced back, confused, and gazed blankly at Tofu's hand.  
"The rain is the least of his worries," he said.  
"I-- I know," she said. "But I should go . . . ."  
"I think," Tofu said, "that even if you could find Ranma, it might be best if no one was with him right now." His grip tightened slightly as she tried to pull away.  
"No!" she yelled. "No! Ranma _needs_ me, I have to _help_ him-- let me go!" She turned away and tried to yank herself out of the doctor's grasp. She twisted free of his hand but the doctor's soft touch followed her, easily moving to the opposite shoulder, her elbow, gently restraining her. Akane cried out in frustration and redoubled her efforts, her mind consumed with the image of Ranma, in the rain, Ranma, unconsciously supine on the bed, Ranma, a shadowy figure poised between her splayed legs; "No!"  
The doctor's arms wrapped around her from behind, pinning Akane's arms to her side. He held her tight as she thrashed within his grasp. Her elbows smacked his side, her heel sought his shins. His grip did not weaken, nor did he say a word. "Ranma's all alone!" the girl cried out, "She's all al. . . ."  
Akane's struggled abruptly ceased. Akane sagged in the doctor's arms, and he gently eased her to the floor. She held herself tight, eyes squeezed shut. The first wracking sob tore through her, then another, and finally the tears, hot and heavy. "Ranma's a boy!" she wailed, and buried her face against Tofu's chest. He held her comfortingly, her weeping muffled by his body. His shirt became wet with tears as she clung to him. The doctor was something strong and solid, as everything else fell apart. She tried to come to terms with what had happened. Someone--no, not just _someone_, she insisted, _Ranma_--that she . . . knew, no, more than that, cared for--had been . . . hurt. She choked on her own tears, a grim laugh mingled with her cry: she's been more than just hurt, 'hurt' doesn't _begin_ to describe what's been done to her! And then: no, Akane persisted, not _her_; him! Him, him, Ranma's a guy, a guy, no matter what happened! But try as she might, huddled in the doctor's consoling embrace, she could not disassociate the idea of Ranma, the boy she had come to know over the last year and a half, from the image of the girl she had found sprawled on a soiled bed in a dark room two weeks ago.  
As her tears subsided, Akane gradually became aware of a growing wetness in the doctor's side. She pulled away from his grasp. His face was pale, and his shirt stained with blood.  
"Doctor?" Akane said, eyes widening.  
Tofu smiled wanly. "Ranma was fairly insistent we leave him alone, don't you think?" He carefully stood, and Akane joined him. "It's not so bad. Nothing worse than a cracked rib, maybe, and some minor lacerations." He nodded towards the corner Ranma had shoved him, and the shattered end table that had broken beneath his fall.  
Akane recalled how she had flailed within his arms. "I'm sorry," she said, but the doctor waved it off. He walked stiffly to the back of the clinic. Akane trailed after him as he tended to his wound.  
"Doctor," she started, hesitatingly, but her voice trailed off to nothing. She sat down heavily on one of the clinic beds. Hugging herself, she focused on the doctor's actions, watching as he peeled back his shirt and applied a dressing to his side. He paused and looked at her expectantly.  
"Akane?"  
She shook her head slightly, orientating on his voice. She tried to focus on the doctor. In trying to avoid reliving the scene fresh in her mind, Akane found it hard to keep her thoughts from slipping away.  
"Doctor," she tried again. "Is she-- is _he_ going to be okay?"  
Tofu paused, and smiled reassuringly. To Akane, the attempt seemed weak and transparent. Beneath the reassurance, his features were sad and tired. "I don't know," he answered. "Ranma is a strong boy. He's already survived some amazing things. But this. . . ." His smile slipped, and he turned away. His voice sounded thick and doubtful when he continued. "I'm . . . sorry, Akane. But I really don't know."  
  
The storm grew stronger.  
Akane pulled herself to her feet. Under the pouring rain, there was no point in wiping her tears away. She wobbled unsteadily for a moment, her legs weak. A deep breath helped settle her brimming emotions, but her entire body shivered from the dampness. Her clothes were wet and cold against her skin. As the rain grew more intense so did the noise, and she soon found herself surrounded by its dull hissing roar. The young woman felt very lonely.  
She absently rubbed at the soaked and torn bandages wound tightly around her hand. Doctor Tofu, after tending to his own wounds, had turned to her sprained wrist. Akane had not realized she had been hurt. After securing the wrappings in place, he had told her to go home. "You should wait for him," Doctor Tofu had said. "You should be there when Ranma returns."  
Akane wasn't sure Ranma would.  
Trudging along the canal, head bowed before the rain, one hand trailing along the slick fence, she had to ask herself: Why should he?  
_Get out of my house._  
And he had stared back at her wide-eyed, with a face suddenly pale, and answered with that enigmatically whispered, "Yes". To what question, she wondered, had he replied? Then came the guilt: how could I throw him out, she asked herself, when I knew what was at stake? No matter what he said--and even now, beneath the dark clouds, rubbing at her dully aching wrist, fragments of a memory roiling at the edge of her thoughts, reds and pale flesh and threatening shadows; even after all that, she _still_ felt residual anger at his insults from the party--I should have kept my temper in check and made sure he stayed. But balancing between her concern for Ranma and her intense anger at his actions and words had been too difficult, that knife's edge too thin; in the end she had fallen and in that brief moment given vent to her rage. How could I have been that weak? she asked herself.  
Akane paused in her slow walk. Despite the miserable cold, she could not bring herself to go any faster. She finally noticed the umbrella held loosely in her hand, but somehow the effort of raising it over her head seemed more trouble than it was worth. She attempted a few more steps before grinding to another fatigued halt.  
At least talking with Nabiki had helped, she thought. Her sister helped share the burden. She had known what to do, had been the one to call up Doctor Tofu and set up the bogus appointment. And because of that, Ranma thought I was sick. Even after what he said in the bathroom yesterday, all those horrible things--he stayed longer, just to make sure I was okay.  
Akane shivered violently from the cold. I _won't_ be okay, she told herself, if I don't get out of this rain soon. But her house felt so far away, an impossible journey in her current state. She forced herself to look around, and realized with a start that she had long missed the turn toward home. A bridge--one of Ranma's hangouts--was nearby. Had come this way unconsciously in search of him?  
After a brief hesitation she clambered over the fence. Her efforts were clumsy and she slipped on the slick metal. Her wrist began to ache. With a final grunt of determination she lifted herself over and fell heavily on the other side. The water level was high, overflowing the lower canal and swallowing up the earthen bank. Akane carefully made her way along the edge, slipping occasionally on the slick concrete but avoiding the water. In focusing on not falling into the rapidly flowing water, she was able to avoid looking at the small space left beneath the bridge. Her heart was beating rapidly as she approached.  
When she looked up, there was nobody there. Only then did she realize how much she had hoped to find Ranma--expected to find him, even; and she released a breath unconsciously kept trapped until that moment. She stood there in the pouring rain, staring blankly at the empty space before her, blinking rapidly. Another strong shiver forced a few steps forward, and she ducked down and took cover beneath the concrete arch.  
She dropped onto the pebbly ground. The protection overhead dampened the sound of the rain, but the rushing water in the bloated canal seemed even louder. Akane breathed deeply, smelling old stone and wet grass, and hugged herself for warmth.  
Is he out there in the rain? Akane wondered. That means he's a she right now, and she pictured the young girl walking through the rain, or maybe running, the doctor's words still ringing in her ears, holding herself, small. That very image in her mind brought with it a sudden pang nearly more vivid than anything thus far: Ranma, small. Her fiance had always seemed so large, with an exuberant energy that easily filled a room. Now she seemed diminished. Akane knew how unfair thinking that way was, and hated herself for allowing the idea to creep in. In fleeing her own judgment, she morbidly tried to imagine how Ranma must feel at this very moment; she tried to imagine herself in that pained flesh and shuddered. She couldn't.  
For when the suggestion of that dark figure arose in Akane's mind, poised between the petite girl's spread legs, all she could see was Ranma's face. "I'm too weak," the girl said, and Akane flinched away and buried her face in her hands, and wept.  
  
Overhead, another figure trudged through the rain. Short and black, it wore a chequered bandanna. It was a pig and it was steaming angry-- literally, for the falling water erupted into tiny sizzling wisps upon contact with its porcine skin. Cloven hooves found difficult purchase on the pavement and it struggled against the fierce winds as it crossed the bridge. With relentless determination it crept forward. Clenched fiercely in its tiny fanged jaw was a crumpled and rusted bottle-cap.  
Just you wait! seethed Ryouga Hibiki. I'm almost there! For insults to me and injuries to Akane, you will pay. Ranma! When next we meet, I'll send you to hell!  
  
Akane lost track of how long she sat beneath the bridge's cover. Long enough for the rain to slow and then weaken, and finally stop. The clouds thinned and broke, and the sun beamed down in gently drifting shafts. The level of the canal was quickly rescinding, and a few ducks even fluttered by, dipping their heads beneath the surface. The wind, still moist and cool, no longer chilled her as deeply. She had stopped crying quite a while ago.  
The sky was already darkening. It's getting late, she thought. Kasumi must be wondering where I am. She tried to push the thought from her mind, because it was a further complication she did not know how to deal with. This thing that happened to Ranma--how would the others react? I can't tell them, she had decided, during her long wait beneath the bridge. That's up to Ranma.  
She climbed out from beneath the bridge and returned to the street, and began the long walk home. Nerima seemed beautiful after the storm, somehow more alive and healthy: the leaves sparkled in the dwindling light, and everything smelled fresher. It made her angry. It's not fair, she thought. Not after what happened. But it gave her something to focus on other than her own unpleasant thoughts, and for that she was thankful. As Akane approached her home, her anxiety grew. She wasn't sure she could maintain her composure before her family. As she slipped through the outer gate and secured it behind her--an unconscious yet unfamiliar action, since they almost never locked the door--she felt an unexpected relief to be off the street.  
"I'm home," she said softly, sliding the door shut.  
The house seemed ominously silent at that moment, and while Akane felt relief at not being immediately accosted at the door, she also felt a brief tremor of anxiety, the source of which she could not entirely place. She slipped off her shoes and left her soaked book bag in the entranceway, and slid down the dim hallway. It was with some pleasure that she heard the normal bustle of another of Kasumi's dinners in progress; she must have stepped in during a lull in the conversation. The shoji were shut against the moist winds, but the light shining through the thin rectangles was cheerful and reassuring. For a long moment, Akane simply stood there watching the shadow play of her family's evening, silhouettes cast against yellowed paper. Her father's occasional words, complimenting the taste of the food; the eldest sister's demure denial that it was anything special; Genma's booming voice insisting otherwise; a wryly voiced cynicism undercutting them all from Nabiki.  
Akane turned away and the dark lines in the smooth wood pulled her eyes along the length of the floor. She took a few shuffling steps and stood outside the dining room. The soft light spoke of warmth and comfort.  
She turned away and stared out across the backyard. She found comfort in the solitude of the small garden and the tiny pool with its languidly swimming carp. Even the wind, with its heavy, sullen movement, proved more welcoming than what lay behind her. It ruffled her drying hair and tickled the nape of her neck. I don't deserve to step in there, Akane thought.  
Lost in empty contemplation, the sound of the door sliding open behind her went unheard. The soft touch on her shoulder surprised her, yet she didn't jump. Akane looked back at Nabiki standing next to her, at her serious and pensive eyes, dark and brooding. Behind them both, sitting in the bright light of the halogen lamp above, the rest of the family watched her with concern.  
"Were you planning to join us, Akane?" Nabiki asked.  
"I didn't think anyone heard me," she said, turning away.  
"It's not easy to sneak by a family of martial artists," her older sister answered. "Don't worry, I explained to Kasumi that you called me to let the family know you would be late."  
"Thanks, sis," Akane answered softly.  
"Don't mention it," she answered just as quietly.  
They both stared out across the garden for a long moment before Akane finally turned back to Nabiki, and with a voice thick with emotion, said, "We have to talk."  
  
Nabiki perched at one end of her bed, anxiously watching her sister sitting opposite her. Akane held her head low; drooping bangs veiled her eyes like a dark curtain. The scene was entirely too much like last night's for Nabiki's comfort. She didn't want to hear what her sister had to say. The painful hollowness of her own stomach told her that she already knew what the result of the boy's visit to the doctor's clinic had to be.  
No, the middle sister insisted, growing angry. Not that: it's ridiculous. That kind of shit doesn't happen. Not in Nerima. Not to my family. Not to Ranma.  
When Akane finally looked up, Nabiki's feeble anger masking her deeper fear disappeared. Her sister wasn't crying--in fact, she seemed remarkable composed--but Nabiki knew her sister too well. There was hurt in her sister's eyes, and a deep hopelessness she hadn't seen in a very long time--had only seen once before. Akane was a girl of extremes--she cried easily, and angered even easier, and smiled and forgave easiest of all; but when she grew quiet and withdrawn her pain reached deep, and endured.  
"Akane?" Nabiki called out softly, only to discover that her voice hadn't escaped, that her own throat seemed swelled shut, her words too thick to slip free. Keep it together, she scolded herself. "Akane?" she tried again. She inched closer to her sister. Nabiki began to feel distant from her own actions, as if watching herself from outside, on a stage or a screen. She felt she already knew how everything would turn out, and was stuck in a role she didn't want to play. Why should she be the one to hold everything together? She wasn't the emotionally comforting one; wasn't that Kasumi's part?  
Her sister had insisted that they talk, but obviously needed some help getting started. Nabiki touched her softly on the side of the head. She smoothed down her sister's hair, still damp and wild from the earlier storm, and finally rested her hand on Akane's shoulder. She gave a firm but gentle squeeze and forced her sister to meet her gaze. "Please listen to me, Akane," Nabiki said.  
And then the older sister watched herself ask, "Akane, was Ranma raped?"  
One of Akane's hands flew to her lips as if in fright, and then she nodded, once. Her eyes were wide.  
"Where is he now?" Nabiki asked, surprised at how steady she voice sounded.  
The response came slowly. "She--_he_ ran away when he found out." Her other hand fluttered uselessly for a moment, until Nabiki noticed the torn and dirty bandages there. "I tried to stop him."  
"Did he hurt you?" Nabiki asked, tone carefully neutral.  
"No!" Akane insisted, her reply quick and sharp.  
"Does anyone else know?"  
"No," she said, in a softer voice. "I asked doctor Tofu to keep it secret for now."  
Nabiki nodded. She couldn't imagine how this would impact her family. Badly. She wondered where Ranma was. There was guilt in Akane's voice, and fear: she probably suspected that the boy wouldn't come back, and blamed herself. Nabiki felt otherwise. After all, where can he go? He's not tough enough to deal with this on his own.  
Akane raised her voice again, tentatively at first but finally with wavering strength. "There's more, Nabiki," she said.  
"More?" She hadn't thought her stomach could drop further, but it did.  
"I was right, last night."  
Nabiki tried to remember their conversation last night. It was a blank. Strange, Nabiki thought dully, I'm normally really good at remembering stuff. "Last night?"  
"Nabiki, Ranma's pregnant."  
A corner Nabiki's mouth quirked into a smirk, as if at a wry joke; then her smile died and her mouth fell open at the total seriousness with which Akane held her gaze.  
"Don't be stupid," Nabiki mumbled. "He couldn't possibly. . . ."  
"She is," Akane said firmly. "Tofu took me aside before Ranma got there. He explained it to me. I--I can't really remember most of it right now. Something about a chemical in the blood. I couldn't concentrate. He said he almost missed it, it's so early, but it's definitely there."  
"Ranma's . . . pregnant." Nabiki repeated the words slowly. She felt stupid saying it. How could a guy be pregnant? But Akane had said 'she' was pregnant. Ranma, the girl. Her mind balked at the idea. Somehow over the last year and a half, she had stopped ever thinking of Ranma, even in his cursed form, as a girl. After that first encounter so long ago--when she'd grabbed his breasts with a familiarity that still made her blush, at times, when she thought of it--every encounter with the boy- turned girl convinced her further of his masculinity. Even at his most feminine, at his most ridiculous. . . he still resembled a caricature rather than the real thing. Not a girl; a man with tits, a very curvaceous, convincing cross-dresser, maybe, but a man nonetheless.  
How could a man be pregnant?  
Nabiki looked at her sister and saw the confusion in her eyes, and understood that Akane was struggling with the same question. Her doubts ran deeper, the uncertainty hurting her badly. "Tofu said--," her sister was saying, when Nabiki suddenly drew her into a tight embrace. She threw her arms around her younger sister and held her tight. She held her as tight as she could and wished she could offer more.  
"He'll be okay," Nabiki whispered. "He'll be okay."  
"It's how he knew," Akane continued, her voice hoarser now and muffled. "It's how Tofu knew. How could Ranma be pregnant? Only if someone . . . if some guy had. . . ." Nabiki felt her sister tremble.  
Forced himself on Ranma, Nabiki finished mentally. But how do we know it was forced? The thought, as brief lived as it was, made her flush hot and angry. How can I even _think_ that? she demanded of herself, but the thought had come, unbidden, of Ranma submitting his female body to a boy's advance. How many times had he flirted shamelessly with guys, flaunting his tits and ass with bizarre pride that bordered on the neurotic? A caricature of femininity rather than the real thing, sure, but still sexy as hell. How many men would prefer a cartoon girl to the real thing? Ranma had been at a party, and he'd been angry, and he'd been depressed and vulnerable, and he'd been drunk and he'd been surrounded by friendly guys who would have been happy to offer a shoulder to cry on, and more, certainly, if he asked for it. . . . Was it really that inconceivable?  
Yes, it was. Nabiki believed this beyond any doubt. The boy was so neurotic he couldn't even bring himself to kiss a girl, let alone . . . anything more. But Nabiki realized that if the thought occurred to her, it would occur to others--to others who did not know the boy as well, or who would like to believe he had 'gone girl', or who would take pleasure in seeing him humbled and ruined.  
"He'll be okay," Nabiki repeated, and she did not believe her own words. The two sisters held each other for a long time. The older sister became aware of the gentle sobbing of her sibling, of a growing wetness against her shoulder. A moment later Nabiki realized tears streaked her own cheeks. She was afraid. She felt filled to brimming with a diffused dread that lurked just beyond recognition.  
A moment later, a soft knocking intruded and the two girls drew apart. The door opened, and Kasumi poked her head into the room. Her usual smile grew brittle a she saw the state of her two sisters. They stared at each other in tense silence, and then Kasumi suddenly blurted out, with unusual urgency:  
"Ms. Saotome is on the phone." When Akane failed to respond, she quickly added, "She wants to talk to you. She says that Ranko is at her place."  
  
The hurried walk to Nodoka's home would later remain a blur to Akane. There was a definite sequence of events, of course--phone call, rush from the house, walk and arrival--but somehow it all seemed disconnected. Rather, she found that she could only remember disjointed images or sounds and scents: the wet slap of her run through puddles, the slam of the door sliding shut behind, Kasumi's face pale and concerned, scattered wispy clouds tinted pink, sunset. The air had been fresh and cool against her face as she ran to Mrs. Saotome's home. She remembered that most of all: following the storm, the dusk sky had been painfully clear and the emerging stars, bright.  
Then her memory hiccupped, skipped forward, and Akane found herself staring down at the huddled shape of her former fiance.  
Ranma sat in the corner of the room, female. He sat curled in a little ball, hugging himself tightly. Head held low, he stared at the floor. Hair undone, it fell in straggly wet coils across his face. His features remained hidden from view. The ragged clothes he wore were still wet and clung to his female contours. He shivered violently at times despite the heat of the room. A heavy blanket lay crumpled at his side. His forearms were marked and torn by ragged scratches, red and painful looking. There was no reaction from him as Akane stopped at the threshold of the room.  
"She's been like that for over an hour," Mrs. Saotome said, and despite trying to speak in a low voice her voice was shrill with worry. "I tried to talk to her. I tried to change her clothes. She wouldn't even take the blanket I gave her."  
Akane nodded dumbly, her eyes never leaving the girl crouched in the corner. She couldn't think of anything to say. She did not know what to do. This was--too much.  
Mrs. Saotome continued to talk, relieved to have someone to share her fear with. "I found her on my doorstep," she said, "when I got back from shopping for groceries. I had been thinking about her, about Ranko, I had bought some ice cream and thought I could invite her over. And there she was, sitting by my door when I got home.  
"But I could tell that something was wrong. When she looked up. . . ." She hesitated, but found her voice a moment later. "Ranko was crying. And her eyes . . . I've never seen . . . she seemed so _lost_, Akane, and wet and cold, and . . . .alone."  
Ranma's mother had dropped her bags of food as the young girl uncoiled and hurled herself into the older woman's embrace. Akane had absently noticed the mess upon arrival, and thought it unusual; Nodoka always kept her home so clean. She vividly remembered a scattering of cherry tomatoes spread across the entrance. In the bluish light of twilight they had seemed so bright and red.  
Mrs. Saotome seemed visibly shaken as she continued. "I held her tight and brought her in. She was crying so hard! She was crying . . . so hard, at first I couldn't understand. What she was saying. But Ranko kept repeating the same thing."  
"What was she saying?" Akane said.  
"'Help me, mom'. Over and over. 'Help me, mom'."  
Akane suddenly couldn't breath. She felt cold.  
"Ranko kept asking for her mother," Nodoka continued, and when Akane finally tore her gaze away from the huddled form of her fiance, she saw the woman's cheeks were streaked with tears. "She held me so tight! She buried her face and kept asking for her mom, and I kept telling her that her mother wasn't here, that she wasn't here, that I would do whatever I could to help, but she just kept crying, Akane, she wouldn't stop and I didn't know what to do. . . ."  
So you called me, Akane thought. But what made you think that _I_ would know what to do? An overwhelming sense of both relief and sadness held her paralysed. Ranma's mother still didn't know the truth about her son. But when Akane pictured Ranma so desperately grasping for consolation that he could feel and touch and yet that remained beyond his reach. . . .  
  
Oh, Ranma, she thought, and began to silently cry. What are you going to do? A moment later, though the tears remained, she felt herself relax. She began to breath normally, because she knew she had to. Mrs. Saotome always seemed so strong, a pillar of authority and confidence, and seeing her so shaken and . . . ineffectual, was disconcerting; but Akane knew that it was now up to her to help Ranma. It was her responsibility. What are _we_ going to do, she thought, and stepped into the room. At that moment, it all became clear to her. This whole situation was largely because of the choices she had made. Now it was up to her to set things right--or as right as could be expected.  
If I hadn't lost my temper, Akane thought, kneeling in front of Ranma, we wouldn't have fought. If we hadn't fought, she wouldn't have drank so much. And if she hadn't become drunk. . . .  
_Untidy disarrayed sheets. Dishevelled Chinese shirt. Bikini top crumpled on floor. Mussed bangs and unravelled locks. Red -- red. Pungent reek of bile and sweat and alcohol. Stifling unaired cluttered over-bright room. The half-naked unconscious girl curled into a tight, small ball in the middle of the bed._  
It's all my fault, Akane thought, and took one limp hand in her own. She softly brushed the damp strands of hair that hid Ranma's face from view. The girl continued to stare blankly at the floor. With gentle pressure Akane forced her to raise her head. Akane stared straight into her blue eyes.  
"I don't know how," Akane said in a low but steady voice meant only for his ears, "But everything will be okay." She squeezed the lifeless hand in her grip. "Ranma? You're not alone."  
Ranma's eyes focused on her. For a moment it seemed he might even speak. She saw in his eyes a depth of misery and hopelessness unlike any she had ever known; it was too much for her to match his desperate stare. Her eyes flickered away briefly, and when they returned Akane thought she could see her own gaze mirrored there--the full reach of the sympathy and pity she felt for the poor girl before her.  
Ranma's eyes turned glassy, empty and withdrawn. He would not speak. But when Akane took his hand and pulled him to his feet he didn't resist. The broken and silent girl would docilely follow Akane all the way home.  
  
It slowly dawned on Genma that something was wrong. It took him quite some time to pin it down. His day had followed an almost perfectly normal routine: an excellent breakfast from Kasumi followed by a couple of stimulating games of go with Soun; a hearty lunch followed by some training in the dojo and a light nap; and finally a delicious dinner and a few cool, refreshing beers. The only thing missing was a little early-morning sparring with the Boy, but a little taunting over breakfast had nicely made up for that.  
Genma pulled back from the low-set table with a deep sigh of contentment that belied the anxiety he felt. His breath grumbled deep in his chest as he took an unusually contemplative pose. Legs crossed and sitting straight-backed, eyes closed, he focused his thoughts. Something was amiss. Soun was taking a bath and Kasumi was cleaning in the kitchen and who could keep track of all those daughters, anyway? That Ryouga boy had shown up about an hour ago, but there wasn't anything particularly strange about an angry black piglet wandering into the house to be replaced by an angry martial artist. Genma liked it when the boy turned up; he made a good sparring partner for the Boy. Not that he felt any urge to talk to the young punk. He was happy to leave Ryouga alone watching the television, though the older man wished the boy would stop his incessant flipping of that bottle cap.  
Ranma hadn't returned from school yet, but that wasn't unusual either. The life of a martial artist was fraught with peril, as Genma liked to say, and even if he preferred a life of leisure supplemented with copious amounts of food, it did Ranma good to lead an exciting life. It kept him on his toes. Oh, sure, the Boy might grumble and complain about all the trouble his father threw his way, but it was all in his best interest, after all, and one day he'd look back on these years and smile wistfully. Just like he and Soun often did. Like the time they chased that prince Happosai angered all the way to Hokkaido and. . . .  
Smiling briefly, Genma pushed the thought aside and concentrated on the matter at hand. Whatever was wrong involved his son. He knew this with a certainty that reached from deep in his belly. He knew to trust his gut; his stomach's instincts rarely led him astray. But what could be wrong with Ranma? True, he hadn't seen much of his son recently, what with taking off for a week of training (the nerve of the Boy; such arrogance!) after his mother's visit. The school had called about some problem or another, but that's what government employees were supposed to do: complain. No new girls had shown up recently. No new rivals. Genma mentally ticked each reason off on a finger: Akane, other girls, rivals, sex-changing curse, school, mother . . . nothing new, his son's life was as ordinary as ever. And yet the Boy had seemed unusually unfocussed this morning over breakfast, as if mulling over a difficult decision. . . .  
His eyes snapped open. Genma rushed from the family room to the guest room he and Ranma shared. Entering the room he was suddenly struck by how empty it seemed. Two folded futons in the corner, a single dresser, and the calligraphy scroll placed by Kasumi; plain tatami, beige walls, and white closet door. He threw the sliding door open and stared at the empty spot on the floor, his heart sinking.  
His son's backpack was gone. His own pack lay slumped to one side without his son's next to it to prop it up. He crossed over to the dresser with two quick strides. He noted the bottom drawer was slightly ajar and pulling it open he reached for Ranma's little stash of secret possessions. Genma liked to keep tabs on what the Boy kept hidden. There were already too many girlish and weak things that he saved, thing unbecoming a man among men. He threw aside his son's collection of lingerie and feminine costumes and pulled out the box hidden at the back and knew at a glance that they had been looked at recently.  
Ranma only mooned over his little collection when something was really bothering him, and keeping track of that little box was almost as useful as reading through a diary--if the Boy kept one, which thank goodness he didn't; only girls kept diaries. The box was bad enough, useful as it might be at times. At least he had the sense to keep it hidden. If his mother found it . . . although the pile of lacy bras and stocking would probably be enough to sink them both. . . . Genma growled and shook his head.  
His son was gone.  
Genma mused over this as he wandered back to the family room, planning as he went. He'd have to follow, of course, and track his ungrateful excuse for a son down. The Boy thought he could leave without him? Arrogant! Selfish! He felt his fists clench at his sides as he walked with heavy steps, the night air cool in the hallway. How dare his son just take off without a word? His anger grew with each step until he reached the sliding door and he suddenly stopped, trembling, and forced a deep breath and realized that he wasn't just angry. He was also very, very scared.  
Something was terribly wrong with his son--he didn't even know _how_ he knew, only that some instinct developed over a decade of constant contact insisted there was--and Genma was furious not with his son but with himself, because in all honesty he didn't _want_ to know what was wrong with his son. His innards churned with a discomfort he had felt only a few times before: after the mess with the Neko-ken or when his son's strength had been stolen and seemed forever gone, times when Genma saw his son withdraw in pain. Times when he didn't know how to reach him, or help him, and suspected he was somehow to blame. Times that left Genma feeling useless and full of doubt. He had taught his son how to fight, how to be strong, how to be a _man_--how could that not be enough? It was more than his own father had ever given him.  
Genma went to step into the main room and suddenly realized that people were arguing, and loudly, and there he caught a glimpse of his son. His son had finally returned--but still female, and wan and withdrawn, hurt, with eyes so very far away, and he knew that his instincts had been right, painfully so, and that this was something he didn't know how to deal with.. . . . Ranma's father pulled back before anyone could see him and silently crept away.  
  
Nabiki checked the front gate from the second floor window every five minutes or so. She didn't want to and she scolded herself every time she found herself staring down at the household entrance, but no matter what she did to distract herself she found herself rushing back to the window at every sound, imagined or real. Staring down at the gate helped clear her mind, or at least focus it on a single thought: where were they? Otherwise, her thoughts turned unpleasant. Darker. The questions she asked herself could only lead to unpleasant ends.  
What if Ranma had told his mother the truth--of nearly two years of lies and avoiding responsibility and keeping his identity hidden from her by playing at 'Ranko'? He was pregnant!--what surer sign of unmanliness could a woman like Nodoka ask for? What kind of woman would force her own son to commit suicide, especially after what he had just been through?  
Nabiki wondered if Ranma would even care.  
Turning to her ledger provided none of the relief money usually brought her, nor the thought of collecting past due accounts (of which there were quite a few). Nabiki felt a need to go to the bathroom and left her room; passing the window she stopped, stared outside, and a few minutes later wandered straight back to her room. She flopped down on her bed and started idly leafing through a borrowed manga, but hearing a noise she rushed back to the hallway. Nothing. She returned to her room and stared down at her homework for a full ten minutes before throwing her pencil down in disgust.  
None of this was accomplishing anything. She felt the need to be helpful. It was a new and unusual sensation for Nabiki, and somewhat disquieting. Somehow comforting her sister didn't seem enough, but what else could she do? Comforting Ranma wasn't going to happen. . . he didn't trust her, and considering that less than a week ago she had been ready to exploit the boy for every yen he could earn, she didn't blame him. So what could she do, wander from the house in search of her younger sister?  
An unpleasant awareness began to well up inside, one she wasn't used to feeling. Helplessness. Nabiki closed her eyes. Her head drooped into her hands as the feeling washed over her. But when she shivered she realized that it wasn't just helplessness she was feeling: she was afraid. She suddenly realized that she didn't want to leave the house . . . that returning home, she had breathed an unconscious sigh of relief at finally passing through the front gates. She was safe here, protected by the love of her father and by a household full of some of the best martial artists in the world.  
Out beyond those walls there was a rapist. When she focused on that thought her heart beat faster and she felt genuinely afraid, but she couldn't turn away from the recognition that her world--as dangerous and absurd as it was, filled with perverts like Happosai and violent weirdos like Tarou--had been invaded by something far more sinister and evil than she had ever encountered before. And as she raised her head and her hands clenched at her side, Nabiki realized that the thought made her angry. Very, very angry.  
What kind of bastard would do something like that to a woman--a helpless one, passed out on a bed in a friend's house? Did he think he could get away with hurting a member of her family? Who was he? Nabiki understood then how she would help. She was going to find the bastard responsible for what had happened to Ranma and make him pay. All the necessary materials were at hand: a phone, a list of phone numbers, and most importantly of all her carefully constructed framework of that night two weeks ago, still fresh in her mind. So intensely was she focused on the new task at hand, on preparation and organizing her thoughts, that she was the last one to reach the family room when all hell broke loose upon Akane and Ranma's return.   
  
Kasumi hadn't been expecting a houseguest but was rarely caught unprepared. Within five minutes of Ryouga's arrival she had a warm cup of tea set before him; three minutes after that she had a bowl of rice, some hot miso soup, and some pickled daikon ready as well. She regretted that it wasn't up to her usual standards, but had prepared it distractedly. Something was amiss within her house. She didn't know what it was. Whatever happened beyond the boundaries of the household was rarely her concern. But when it impacted upon her family she had to take notice. Both her sisters were acting strangely, and Mr Saotome too. . . well, stranger than usual, that is. After totally ignoring their houseguest he had dashed upstairs without a word. There was a disquieting presence intruding upon her home and Kasumi didn't like it one bit.  
Still, there was a houseguest to attend to and her own concerns, for the moment, had no bearing upon that. "How are you feeling, Ryouga?" she asked. He seemed half-famished, devouring the food rapidly and breaking only to toss cupfuls of tea down his throat. His obvious enjoyment of her food brought a smile to Kasumi's lips.  
He paused in mid-gulp, and actually blushed. "Fine." He hastily wiped his mouth clean and flashed a toothy grin. "I mean . . . better now, thanks to your food."  
Kasumi accepted the compliment with a small nod. "Thank you." Of all of Ranma's friends, Ryouga seemed the most polite. He was easier on the furniture than most of the others as well. His usual yellow-and-brown clothes were clean, if somewhat rumpled. Considering the recent weather, she decided he must have changed just before arriving. She approved of that kind of consideration in a guest.  
The boy shrugged. He seemed at a loss for words, and looked around the room expectantly. Finally he turned back to Kasumi. "Umm. have you seen Ranma by any chance?" he asked. "Or Akane?"  
"Not in the last hour or two, I'm afraid," Kasumi answered. "Akane received a call from Ranma's mother. He was visiting, I think."  
Ryouga seemed a little surprised at the very prospect of Ranma having a mother. He stopped rolling a rusted beer cap across his knuckles for a moment and clenched it in his fist. The boy shrugged. "Any idea when they'll be back?"  
None whatsoever, and that concerned her greatly. Kasumi kept track of her family, as best she could--she knew when they left for school and when they were due back; on what days there were club activities and when her father was out meeting the members of the neighborhood council; the dates of doctor appointments and special school activities and when all the festivals came to Nerima. Her household was anything but quiet but she still knew where her family was. . . usually. She had seen the empty closet in Mr. Saotome's room.  
"Quite soon, I should think," Kasumi answered.  
"Would you mind if I waited here until they got back?"  
She smiled warmly at him. "Of course not."  
Kasumi picked up his dishes and carried them back to the kitchen. She felt uneasy. She felt that she didn't fully understand what was happening within her own family, and Kasumi didn't like the loss of that control one bit.  
As she left the room she glanced back. Ryouga was leaning back against the wall, staring into the distance and smiling. His fangs glinted from his bared grin, and the bottle cap danced across the back of his hand.   
  
The trip home had been a long one, longer than any Akane could remember. Ranma had held her hand the whole way, with the insistent temerity of a young child. He stumbled along behind as she led the way, eyes downcast and hidden by the fall of his unbound hair. Once or twice she thought she heard him mumble something but was unsure, and stopping to check he offered no answer to her queries and refused to meet her gaze. The walk had been otherwise silent.  
Now they stood before the front door of her home and she hovered at the threshold, unsure as to what to do. Step in, Ranma trailing behind wet and quiet, and announce in a sunny voice, "I'm home"? If she didn't bring him home straight away, life could continue under a facade of normalcy for a few more days, at least, much as it had for the last week or two with the ending of the engagement still a secret, the horrible consequences of that party so long ago still unknown . . . no one but Nabiki knew, her father was still blissfully ignorant, Kasumi as well, and Mr. Saotome. . . .  
Akane shuddered at the thought of how Ranma's father would react when he discovered that his son had been raped. When he learned that Ranma was pregnant. The man lived in constant fear that his son would be discovered as anything less than manly . . . glancing at the boy-turned- girl standing listlessly behind her, she allowed herself to briefly see Ranma the way his father must see him: as a girl lost within herself, weak, delicate even . . . helpless, with none of the boundless energy or fierce pride he usually exhibited. The girl stared at the ground in a pose that would seem almost demure were she not so wet and bedraggled and with those horrible welts marring her forearms. Akane's stomach churned in anticipation of their reception.  
Ranma must have felt her indecision, for he raised his head to fix her with a blank stare. She could barely see his eyes behind the veil of hair that obscured his face. With a tentative reach she brushed the hair away and fixed it behind his ear. Confronted with the full emptiness of his gaze she found that she could hardly keep herself from looking away. Ranma offered nothing more than an unblinking stare, demanding nothing, hoping for nothing.  
"Ranma," Akane stammered, but as soon as the words left her mouth his gaze dropped once again to remain fixed upon his shoes. He swayed slightly and remained silent.  
She took a deep breath. Hopefully the entrance would be empty and she could lead him upstairs without anyone noticing. Nabiki would know what to do. She could help control the family, or break the news to them in some way that didn't seem as bad, she was so good with words, phrase it gently, deflect the full awful reality of what had happened--how could you break the news of a rape gently?  
Akane opened the door and stepped through and turned around to slip out of her shoes and stepped back to make room for Ranma to follow her in. When she turned around again Ryouga was standing at the far end of the entrance.  
"Ranma," the boy said, his lips curling into a toothy grin. "How good to see you."  
Ranma still stood by the door, where he made no motion to remove his shoes. He offered no reaction to his friend's greeting. Ryouga's welcome didn't seem very friendly. This wasn't the time for one of their silly brawls. Ranma was in no shape to fight. He needed to be protected. Akane moved to fully interpose herself between the two boys. "Ryouga, wait. . ." She started to speak but even as the words left her mouth the martial artist was moving.  
Ryouga's smile twitched into a smirk. He flicked something into the air, snatched it and, his hand a blur, sent it flying towards his rival.  
His target made no effort to dodge. The projectile landed with a painful-sounding thud high on Ranma's brow. Only once it fell to the ground with a metallic ping did Akane recognize it as a bottle cap.  
"I've been saving that for you for weeks!" Ryouga snarled. "I knew it had to be your fault when it hit me!"  
The impact had snapped Ranma's head back. A moment later his head lolled forward. A thin line of blood trickled down his forehead. His vacuous gaze and languid lips remained unchanged, but his complete indifference at the attack seemed to take Ryouga aback. Still wearing his sopping-wet shoes, Ranma wordlessly shuffled past his attacker.  
Instinct obviously overcame his shock: one arm snaked out, seized Ranma by the wrist, and pulled him back. The flesh whitened and the jagged scratches stood out lividly beneath the tight grip. Ryouga's thin smile tightened, though uncertainty seemed to tug at its edges. He grip ground the thin wrist in his grasp. "Well, Ranma. . . nothing to say?"  
Ranma's eyes flickered down to his wrist then up to Ryouga's face. His rival's face was rapidly reddening. He answered those furious eyes with a gaze of placid indifference that seemed to only infuriate Ryouga further. The faintest hint of a smile seemed to threaten to overtake Ranma's lips. Blood beaded down the lines of his face.  
Ryouga was never one to enjoy being laughed at. He couldn't see that if there was any mockery, that it was aimed inward; Akane wasn't sure if her former fiance was even aware of the boy before him. The martial artist gave a savage tug on Ranma's arm, unbalancing him. "Answer me, dammit!" he demanded, but the boy remained silent, impassive, and didn't even try to catch himself as he stumbled forward. He fell against Ryouga. Without the grip on his arm he might have slumped to the ground.  
The larger boy endured the presence of his rival against him for a surprisingly long time, as the redness of his face gradually shifted from anger to acute embarrassment. It looked like he was holding a young girl to his broad chest, one who made no effort whatsoever to remove herself from his embrace. "What the hell are you doing?" Ryouga hissed, releasing his grip but seemingly at a loss at what to do about his limp opponent. "In front of Akane!"  
In front of Akane, but she found herself unable to move or react, frozen in place as she watched with growing horror as her friend's face suddenly resolved itself --as he reared back and formed a hammy fist --as he pushed the girl before him away and held her steady with the other hand --as he punched forward. . . .  
"Ryouga, no!" she cried, but too late, her voice finding itself well after the attack was thrown . . . the punch took Ranma squarely across the jaw. Again, he made no attempt to avoid or soften the attack. Akane watched in what seemed like slow-motion as the punch sunk into flesh and connected with bone; as the head snapped around and the neck twisted back and the whole body followed after, corkscrewing through the air, lifted clear off the ground and sent soaring down the hallway. Ranma hit the hardwood floor face-down, flopping bonelessly and sliding several feet. But Ryouga was already launching himself after his target, face purpling with continued anger. With one hand he hauled the unresisting girl up by the hair. "Fight back!" he demanded, his voice cracking around the edges, unsettled by Ranma's refusal to fight. He didn't wait for an answer; with a savage twist he drove his shoulder into the girl and sent her sprawling into the family room. She slammed into tatami and tore a grove into the mat and left it bloodied as the fine-edged bamboo lacerate her cheek; and even before her momentum was through Ryouga was in pursuit, pinning Ranma beneath his foot and drawing his fist back for a final blow. "Fight!" His eyes were red and nearly bulging with unrestrained fury--or something equally unsettling.  
And suddenly Akane found that she could move, and leapt after the martial artist and his downed target, her voice finding itself again: "Ryouga, stop!" He paused, his eyes briefly turning her way, long enough for her to catch up. "Leave her alone!"  
"Her?"  
Ryouga seemed genuinely surprised, unable to associate the idea of pummelling Ranma with that of punching an actual girl. His looked at Akane quizzically. She flushed red herself, ashamed at her mistake, angry at having thought of Ranma as a girl again. . . furious at Ryouga for having led her back into that error. As had often happened before Akane found that, once ignited, it was terribly easy to tag her anger onto the nearest available target; and for the first time that target proved Ryouga. Ranma should have been her victim: he was the strong one, the one always picking on those weaker than him, the cocky arrogant one, so full of life, so full of himself, so . . . alive.  
Ranma lay spread-eagle on the floor, lips twisted in a curious half- smile, and stared sightlessly at the ceiling.  
"Leave HIM alone!" Akane howled. She hurled herself at Ryouga. Though his eyes widened with surprise--he must have seen her haymaker coming from miles away --he simply watched the attack approach with the same quizzical look to his face. Her fist connected solidly with his head, powerful enough to shatter brick; he staggered back a few steps.  
"Akane?" he said, sounding hurt.  
"Get out of here!" she screamed, trembling with anger. A bubble of hysteria swelled up from deep inside: tension stretched to its final limit, the emptiness it barely contained threatened to overwhelm her. . . would she collapse in tears? . . . erupt into violent anger? . . . or simply laugh out loud? She had thought herself strong, in control and able to take care of Ranma, but already she felt her tenuous hold slipping away. Ranma had been _raped_, there was some kind of . . . monster, out there, a predator on the loose . . . he was _pregnant_ . . . it's my fault . . . how could he let that happen to himself . . . how can I think that? "Get out of my house!" Hadn't she said the same thing to _him_ just days ago? Fists clenched at her side and breathing heavily, she stood over the unmoving Ranma. Ryouga seemed to wilt under her furious gaze, confused but unwilling to argue. Shoulders bent he turned towards the exit.  
"Stay where you are, Ryouga." Kasumi stood at the entrance to the kitchen, arms crossed. Her voice remained low but held a steely edge; she fixed Akane with a stern look as she spoke. "That's no way to speak to a guest, Akane. I've welcomed Ryouga into our home, and I won't have you speaking to a guest in such a manner."  
Akane stared at her older sister, dumbfounded. How could Kasumi contradict her like that? After what Ranma had been through. . . he needed protection from the likes of Ryouga. What if all his other rivals suddenly showed up: Mousse demanding retribution for slurs against Shampoo, Kuno demanding the same for insults to the pigtailed girl; or even worse his suitors, Ukyou, Shampoo, or Kodachi; or Happosai, or Tarou, or. . . or. . .  
The full immensity of what had happened suddenly came crashing down upon Akane. Ranma's life was anything but simple or solitary--anything serious that happened to him impacted on so many other lives. How many would learn of his debasement with unadulterated glee? With shock and disappointment? With tears or laughter or derision? Each one would be a terrible blow against her former fiance, far worse than what he had suffered at the hands of his peers a few weeks ago at school. He'd be emotionally defenceless, and she wasn't sure she could protect him from all that. Akane felt an overwhelming surge of hopelessness again and it was all she could do to stop herself from sinking to her knees or burst into tears. With reddening eyes she glared at Ryouga, then at Kasumi, and back again, and she couldn't think of a single word to express how she felt.  
Ryouga stood frozen between the two Tendo women. He offered a nervous chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. "Umm. . . maybe I should go take a little walk."  
"No, you'll sit down and enjoy your tea," Kasumi said, in tone that brooked no argument.  
"Kasumi, please. . . ." Akane found her voice, and it came out soft and pleading. She didn't know what she was asking for.  
Her sister's countenance softened slightly, though her voice remained firm. "Akane, you're acting very strange."  
What answer could she offer to that? Strange? Nothing in their life had been normal since Ranma's arrival over a year ago. Maybe life in the Tendo household had always been slightly unusual before that, but nothing compared to what the Saotomes carried with them, wrestled with and took part in every day, insisted was the way a life should be led--insisted that Akane learn to live with as well. Well, for a week she had sampled what life could be like without Ranma and all the other nutjobs he knew; she'd led the life of an ordinary Japanese teenage schoolgirl, going to class and hanging out with friends and taking part in club activities and even throwing a sleepover at her place. No one had attacked the school or broken down the door of the house or kidnapped her--no one had changed sex unexpectedly or called her fat or stupid or clumsy. Everyone had been very friendly and kind and supportive. She hadn't gotten angry with anyone. She'd even slept well. It had been a very nice week.  
A few years ago, before Ranma had appeared, the whole family had taken a vacation trip as a reward for Akane passing her high school entrance exams. The Tendos had gone to Shikoku, to Tokushima prefecture and the 'hidden' Iya valley. There were old stories of villagers who'd lived in isolation for decades, and of shattered samurai armies living in hiding, waiting for the day to avenge their fallen master and totally unaware that whatever war they had fought was long over . . . the thought of meeting an ancient master of a forgotten martial art had been exciting to Akane back then, and she'd carried that hope with her on the trip. Of course, other than visiting a few reconstructed vine bridges and semi- historical sites, most of the trip had been spent at the rented cabin, relaxing and enjoying the nearby hot springs. She remembered Nabiki sitting outside on the deck, totally relaxed in her yukata and with the full splendor of the mountain forests wreathed in mist before her, and the sound of the river rushing through the gorge coming from far below.  
"This is nice," her sister had said. "But, man, I'd hate to live out here."  
Akane wondered, even if she had never met Ranma, would she have been happy with a life like she'd just experience for the last week?  
Martial arts were a part of her life. She'd encountered the fantastical creatures of Ryugenzawa on her own when she was but a child. Happosai would have come visiting whether the Saotomes were living with them or not. She'd already had her own challenges: Kuno and nearly every male club member, for one. Her life certainly hadn't been boring before. Before . . . Ranma.  
But he'd brought so much more with him, and before she'd made any kind of choice he'd inadvertently dragged Akane along with her. Would she have chosen to follow had she been given time to decide? It didn't seem to matter anymore.  
Ranma was slowly rising to his feet, seemingly oblivious to the tension surrounding him, Kasumi and Ryouga's stares, Akane's own held breath. Without meeting anyone's face he slowly shuffled towards the bathroom.  
"Stop acting like a girl!" Ryouga demanded.  
There was a sharp intake of breath: Nabiki, standing at the bottom of the stairs. Had she watched the whole thing? Ranma gave no indication that he heard his rival. He didn't slow or turn back. Not even when Akane called out after him. In silence, Ranma slowly left the room.  
  
Nabiki had seen the whole thing: Kasumi trying to hold on to a domestic authority she must feel slipping away without knowing why; Ryouga overcompensating for a fear he couldn't understand through aggression; Akane, calling out to Ranma in a soft, fearful voice, so full of concern and pity; and Ranma. . . .  
Nabiki saw in his eyes a look she was all too familiar with: resentful hatred, burning but impotent. It quickly turned inward, twisting into self-loathing, but there was no mistaking the hateful burn at hearing her sister's voice. Nabiki had had similar looks directed at her often enough, as she collected fees from debtors unable to afford to costs, or fulfilled a threat against someone who doubted her ruthlessness. Always the same useless rage as their loss turned into her gain. But what was he losing, or her sister gaining, that, even briefly, he could hate her so?  
She'd only had a brief glimpse of Ranma's face, but hadn't liked what she had seen there. There was also a dangerous tension to the boy's features, a tautness to the lines of his face that suggested, to Nabiki, barely repressed violence. She'd felt an unpleasant thrill run through her, a unconscious shiver of fear at the look he'd given her before turning away. She'd never seen Ranma angry--not _really_ angry, though she'd heard a few stories of him getting serious in a fight; she suspected in those brief moments he looked something like he did now. Now wasn't a good time for anybody to be near him. Even Akane, though Nabiki firmly believed that he'd never purposefully do anything to harm her.  
"Where do you think you're going, Ranma?" Ryouga yelled after his retreating rival.  
"I told you to leave him alone!" Akane said, her voice shrill.  
"Akane! That will be enough!"  
"Where has that lazy son of mine gone?" When the hell did Mr. Saotome show up?  
"Mr. Saotome, no, Ranma needs to be left alone right now!"  
"What's happening?" Great, Dad would have to get involved as well.  
"What, is he moping girlishly again?"  
"Don't SAY that!"  
"I won't have you speaking to a guest--"  
"He's such a girl--"  
"Um, what's happ--"  
"What'd you say, boy? I'll--"  
"People, people!" Nabiki called out.  
Suddenly all the chatter stopped, all eyes turning to her. She had no idea what to say next. She only knew that she needed to calm everyone down. "Some people are trying to take an afternoon nap, you know!"  
There was a brief silence. Her father ended it with, "Nabiki, really." And she could see that everyone was ready to erupt into argument again: Ryouga taking a step towards the stairs, Akane flushing red with anger, Genma looking ready to bluster and throw his bulk around, and her father confused and suddenly on the edge of tears. . . only her older sister seemed to remain calm, suddenly seeming far more aware of what was going on than Nabiki would have given her credit for. Well, Nabiki thought, if I can't get them to listen to me, I can at least get them to hate me. I'm good at that.  
"But while I'm up," she continued, and allowed a smirk to creep onto her face, "we might as well talk about a number of outstanding debts and allowances . . ."   
  
Nabiki seemed to have everybody briefly occupied, or at least confused. She was talking quickly and gesturing animatedly and keeping the attention focused on herself as she blocked everyone's path to the bathroom. Akane took the opportunity to slip away and out the front door. As she ran around the house towards the side the bathroom faced, she thought about Ranma: she wanted to reach him before anyone else did. Bringing him home had obviously been a mistake. He needed peace and quiet now, not loud bickering and violent threats.  
She opened the bathroom window without hesitation, but the sliding door separating the bathtub from the sink and laundry basket was closed. A blurred feminine silhouette stood silently on the other side. There was the sound of running water. The shape opposite her shifted and grew taller and suddenly seemed stronger. The water stopped but Ranma otherwise didn't seem to react. Akane quickly pulled herself through the window and crossed over to the door. She pulled it over.  
He stood there, a man once again, with his shirt off and for one fleeting moment Akane could nearly fool herself into thinking that everything was fine, their problems were solved--he was a man! A man couldn't get raped, and he couldn't get pregnant. But he didn't react to her arrival, didn't even seem to notice. He stared deeply into the mirror. One hand hovered lightly over his lower abdomen. He eyes flicked back and forth, as if looking for something in his own reflection.  
He shuddered, his whole body convulsing, it seemed, around his belly. One hand clenched the edges of the sink with dangerous strength, but the other grabbed at what little loose flesh there was at his stomach . . . his fingers sunk into his stomach and grabbed and twisted and released and grabbed again; and with his eyes squeezed tight he sunk to his knees, still holding to the sink as it cracked beneath his grip but now he wasn't grabbing at his stomach anymore . . . his hand curled into a tight ball and suddenly he was hitting himself, his fist connecting with a loud smack with his side, his torso. . . .  
"Ranma, no!" Akane cried, moving to stop him; but he'd already stopped, looking past her with unseeing eyes. He suddenly sprung forward, catching her by surprise. He clipped her with his shoulder and sent her sprawling, and smashed through the doors behind her. She felt a dull pain in the side of her head and heard something shatter; she fell stunned to the ground, something wet trickling down her forehead, and she dazedly noticed the broken pieces of mirror around her.  
In what seemed like mere seconds later, Ryouga stood framed in the doorway. His eyes bulged as he took in the broken doors and shattered glass and cracked porcelain; at Akane on the floor, her forehead slick with blood.  
"He hurt you!"  
"Ryouga, no," she tried to say, but her voice came out as a whisper, her vision still swimming.  
"That bastard hurt you!" Louder, angrier.  
"He didn't mean--"  
"I'LL KILL HIM!"  
  
Ryouga found his nemesis standing silently in the middle of the dojo, in the dark, illuminated only by the dim light slanting in from outside. It was a miracle that Ryouga hadn't gotten lost while tracking his foe. The thought hadn't occured to him. His mind was too full of rage to think rationally. Tracking Ranma down because of the insult of the bottle cap had been a pleasant divertissement--something to occupy his mind during the long hours on the road. A pleasant reward for the end of a long trip. But this. . . Ranma had hurt _Akane_!  
Ryouga didn't bother with insults or declarations as he launched himself at his rival; the anger he felt was beyond anything he could remember feeling. He didn't pull his punch. Ranma didn't dodge. The attack caught him solidly in the face and sent him tumbling across the dojo. Even as he hit the polished floor Ryouga was after him; he buried a kick in Ranma's side and felt with grim satisfaction ribs that nearly splintered beneath the impact. The kick lifted the unresisting body off the ground; with an iron grip he grabbed Ranma by the throat, lifted him into the air, and smashed an elbow into his face. The boy collapsed back to the ground in a silent heap. The only noise in the hall was Ryouga's heavy breathing and the heavier sound of his fist smacking into flesh.  
That, more than anything, cut through the red haze that filled his mind. Fights with Ranma weren't supposed to be quiet: there were insults and taunts; the exchange of blows and the declaration of technique names; what was going on here? Panting, he watched as Ranma slowly regained his feet. His rival's face was streaked in blood that gushed from his nose and seeped from cuts along his brow. Skin was already purpling in places, yellowed and black in the centre. Ryouga stared at his passive victim. His gaze was matched in silence. Blood dripped from chin and nose and trickled down Ranma's bare chest. As Ranma held Ryouga's gaze his lips slowly curled into a mocking smile. Both arms hung loosely at his side, but then spread slightly--it was an open invitation to strike at his undefended torso.  
Was this some kind of trick? It had to be . . . some new bizarre technique of passive resistance. He'd suck up all the power of his attacks and return it in all in one apocalyptic punch . . . or something. It had to be. Why else would he just stand there?  
"Why won't you fight me?" Ryouga demanded. No answer came. "What's wrong with you?" Again, nothing. "You think you can just ignore me, is that it? You think that'll save you? After what you did to Akane?" Ryouga thought he saw a flicker of--something, recognition maybe?--flash through his rival's eyes. It was something he could follow up on; pulping an unresponsive opponent wasn't much fun, and while it didn't make Ryouga feel terribly guilty there was little honour to be had in finally defeating Ranma if he wouldn't put up a fight. "Yeah, you bastard, I've always known you didn't deserve her but I didn't think you'd stoop so low as to _hit_ her! " Again, a reaction buried deep within his eyes; and his arms fell back to his side. Ryouga took a deep, happy breath. "You're the worst thing that ever happened to her! And I bet you don't even care! You probably enjoy stringing her along like the rest of your girls, right? Well, it stops tonight!"  
Ranma took a step forward--it was slow and loose but almost contained a hint of aggression.  
"Don't like what I'm saying, Ranma? The truth hurts, doesn't it! But you don't have anything to say . . . maybe you finally get it. You're scum, Ranma--you're insulting and violent and abusive and perverted." Something started to smoulder deep inside his rival's eyes. "She should've dumped you ages ago, you know that? Well after tonight, I don't think you'll be wanted around here for much longer. Fiance? Ha! Like she'd marry a freak like you!"  
Unexpectedly, those final words seemed to siphon the growing anger away from Ranma . . . he went limp, his gaze dropping to the floor. Ryouga felt an unexpected panic . . . something was really, really wrong here. But he couldn't stop. The need to avenge Akane ran parallel with the fear that he'd just been thrust into something way over his head. He fumbled slightly before finding his way again. "Hey . . . no, wait . . . you think you can just ignore me, Ranma?" He stepped forward and backhanded his opponent across the face, but compared to his earlier assault it was barely a tap. "Stop acting like a girl!"  
Ranma's head suddenly snapped up. His eyes narrowed and his lips grew thin and tight.  
"You don't like it when I say that, do you?" Ryouga said, sneering and stepping closer, and inside he felt a personal triumph at having finally gotten through to him. Maybe now they could finally have a proper duel and he could win Akane's affection! "Well, if you're going to act like a girl," Ryouga said, and rearing back he delivered a savage side- thrust to Ranma's midriff, "you should look like one, too!"  
The kick sent Ranma flying once again, but this time he slammed into the bucket full of water the Tendos' kept in case of a fire within the dojo. The container upended and its contents splashed all over Ranma. A wet and bedraggled and female Ranma lay in the heap on the floor.  
That ought to do it, Ryouga thought, and he smiled.  
The pigtailed boy's head snapped up. Ryouga gave an involuntary gulp at the look in his eyes. They were far from dead or blank. They burned with a rage unlike any he had ever seen there before. His rival rose in a crouch that was nearly feral. His lips curled back and even at several meters away he could hear the heavy, gulping intake of breath.  
Ranma howled. There were no coherent words, only a primal expression of anger and hate and loss that filled the dojo with its fury. His head was thrown back, his eyes squeezed shut and arms wide as he rose, and tears poured down his face and washed through the blood as he continued to scream. Finally his voice died out, in the trailing screech of a throat stripped raw. He stood there panting. He focused on Ryouga once again.  
"Because of you, I've seen Hell?" Ryouga said, suddenly feeling a lot less sure of himself.  
With a savage, inarticulate cry, his rival flew at him. Ranma was a flurry of punches and kicks, slamming into Ryouga with unmitigated rage, screaming all the time, face twisted with anger, teeth bared, blue eyes wide and staring madly through a streaked mask of tears and blood and bruises . . . Ryouga fell back beneath the onslaught and suddenly feared for his life--in a very real and panicky way that he had rarely known before, and never when fighting Ranma. The strikes came fast and strong and Ryouga tried to take as many as he could on his forearms, throwing up what defence he could, but Ranma seemed everywhere, half-naked and female and clawing and kicking and grabbing and howling like a deranged animal.  
Ryouga didn't know what was going on--this wasn't the way it was supposed to be. Ranma was the smooth, controlled fighter, the one who dodged and avoided until the last moment then threw the final attack that ended it all; or who matched his opponent with steely determination until that inevitable weakness presented itself, the flaw in the technique. . . But this, this was fighting like. . . .  
Like me, he thought, and with a roar of his own he dropped his defences and launched himself forward. A dozen nearly crippling blows left him numb and almost blind with pain but then he passed through the storm of attacks and slammed bodily into his smaller opponent and sent him sprawling. Ranma was back on his feet immediately, but now Ryouga had regained his footing he was better able to meet the attack. They were undisciplined, ungodly fast and terribly strong but almost entirely unskilled; they were the furious thrashings of a child and not the controlled strikes of the master martial artist that he knew Ranma to be. Ranma had gone silent, panting with exhaustion but still pressing the attack, only now Ryouga was able to deflect and outright dodge the worst of the onslaught. He sidestepped a kick and ducked beneath the following punch and slapped the next few away at the elbow; and weaving in close he slammed a punch into his rival's shoulder that staggered him. He stayed close and with grim efficiency continued to pummel Ranma whenever the opportunity presented itself: a kick to the thigh, a punch in the ribs, a ridge-hand to the collarbone; and finally Ranma was slowing down, the unrelenting speed of his attack exhausting him, the damage of Ryouga's attacks finally catching up. . . .  
The opportunity Ryouga was waiting for presented itself: a brief window in which Ranma was forced to catch his breath and was left wide open. A swift hooking kick to the back of the knee buckled Ranma's legs. Ryouga rushed forward, hauled him forward by one shoulder and cracked his elbow into his face. Ranma slumped backwards to the ground but Ryouga wasn't going to give him a chance to recover; he followed his opponent down, dropping onto Ranma's thighs and trapping his legs and forcing them apart and denied him any leverage, while keeping the body pinned down by pressing his weight down on one shoulder. His free hand pulled back for a finishing punch.  
"This is the end, Ranma!" Ryouga cried. But before he could deliver the blow he could tell that the fight was over--Ranma was again retreating into himself, seeming to withdraw as far from his own body as was possible. "No you don't," Ryouga demanded, and pounded him in the shoulder. "You won't ignore me again! You'll pay for everything you've done to me! You'll know the hell that I've known!"  
Ranma was suddenly horribly awake and fully present before him, thrashing madly beneath his grip but unable to break his pin, eyes staring wildly around as if seeking an escape, and Ryouga realized that his opponent was speaking in a terrified whisper: "not again, please, not again. . . ."  
Ryouga grabbed him by both shoulders and lifted him up and slammed him back down. He held him there but suddenly felt strangely aware of his opponent's naked breasts, that it was a half-naked woman he held pinned beneath him. "What the hell's wrong with you?"  
  
***  
  
What answer could possibly suffice?  
The air felt hot and stuffy despite the coolness of the night. The floor, wooden planks running lengthwise beneath, their waxy grainy coarseness. An absence of light, only a feeble glow reaching from the house that seemed intrusive, unwanted, highlighting Ryouga like a dull halo. Ranma suddenly could no longer deny an immediacy of being, that it was _him_ pinned spread-eagle to the floor, his rival hunched over him panting, bleeding, angry, confused, worried.  
Not that Ranma had been entirely absent from the day's flight. He could remember running through the streets, the lashing rain, punches, blood. His mother's home, his mother, holding him but holding Ranko, not her son, failed offspring. Akane, coming to bring him home. Sad eyes laden with pity. He could remember but he couldn't feel those events. They were disjointed, a series of images in somebody else's photo album without anyone to explain them. Memories were supposed to be more than just scattered pictures in his head. Shouldn't there be emotions connected to them? He couldn't feel anything. He saw himself desperately clinging to his mother and felt nothing. It might not even have happened.  
Pain. Heavy weight grinding into each thigh. A hand gripping his shoulder. Dullness across his side, a prelude to bruises. He could taste blood. Someone was over him. Ryouga. With one fist held back, eyes wide, snarling through cracked lips and a bloodied face. They were fighting but Ranma couldn't remember why. It must be serious, he thought. He looks pretty beat up, I don't think I've ever gone at him that hard before. Not even after he used that stupid fishing rod on me.  
_trust me, no boyfriend. No guy'll ever go out with her._  
_ aren't I your friend?_  
_ everything was going fine, and you just had to screw it up!_  
How about that time they'd fought over Akane, back when the Bakusai Tenketsu was supposed to kill people--that had been a tough fight. It had taken a lot to put the moron down. He still couldn't believe the guy had been willing to use a technique he thought was deadly. But he'd saved him anyway. Pulled him from the water. Then collapsed by the river, exhausted, battered and bruised. Female.  
_ yes, Ranma, you are, please be a girl_  
_ you want to stay, don't you?_  
The best of his rivals. An enemy to measure himself by. Anything he learns I can do better. He might beat me once but I'll get him the second time around. Nobody keeps Ranma Saotome down.  
_I would never hurt you._  
"What's wrong with you?"  
And he was on his back in the dojo half-naked with Ryouga towering over him, one hand pinning him down and his legs were spread, pinned to the floor, beaten and terrified, weak, weak . . . what was the point of struggling? But the eyes that stared down at him revealed only confusion, anger and victory.  
"I was raped," Ranma said.  
  
They were sitting in the dojo. Silence between them, in the dark.  
"You were . . . raped?"  
A single jerky nod.  
"How?"  
An answer was needed but none would come. "I don't know."  
"You don't--"  
"I don't remember. I was drunk. I don't remember."  
"Then how do you. . . .?"  
Akane was sick. "Tofu ran a test."  
"A test."  
A long silence beneath the empty vaulted ceiling.  
"I don't understand."  
"With blood."  
_ there was blood. Your blood. On the bed sheets. On your legs._  
"I don't--"  
"I'm pregnant, Ryouga."  
  
Why am I telling him this? He's my enemy. He wants Akane. He doesn't care.  
"That's . . . wow. Shit. You're pre-- shit. Shit."  
Nothing to say.  
"When did you find out?"  
_Akane is really okay?_  
"Today. This morning."  
"This morning. Ranma, I'm. . . ." He looked away.  
The dojo was cold. Sounds filtered in from outside, beyond the walls: a woman's voice, softly singing. Nothing was said for a long time.  
"What?" Ranma demanded.  
"Heh."  
Was the bastard laughing?  
"I'm sorry, Ranma." Ryouga stood up, his features hooded by the dark. "We shouldn't have fought." A glint of light, from a bared fang. "I don't pick on the weak."  
  
The tree against his back, bark cutting into his hand, lungs burning hot in his chest. Surrounded by friends and peers, all watching as he lost, as he finally got what was coming to him. Everybody likes to see a winner lose. They'd been waiting for it to happen. Now thanks to Happosai and his damned pressure point chart they were about to. Kuno with bokken raised, Mousse and his chains, the principal, even Gosunkugi--and he was too weak to defend himself, already battered and wounded. Arms raised to fend off blows that never landed.  
"If it's not one, it's another." Ryouga. He was strong; they couldn't get past him.  
Was he supposed to be grateful? "What . . . you're saving me for yourself?"  
  
Is that what he thinks I am?  
He was right. Which is why he had ended on the floor. Almost naked, exposed. He'd tried to fight, launching himself at his rival. Only to be pinned, legs splayed open. Was that how it happened before? He couldn't remember. Shouldn't that bother him? Shouldn't thinking about it bother him? There was nothing there. Only Ryouga standing triumphant over him. He deserved it. Ranma didn't stand. He had nothing to say.  
His rival squatted next to him. Ranma found it hard to meet his gaze. There wasn't any of the anger he was used to seeing. But it wasn't a friendly gaze, either. He was enjoying this, probably. The winner had lost.  
"What were you expecting?"  
Ranma looked away.  
"You thought I'd take pity on you? Try and ease your pain?"  
"Go 'way."  
"I told you that one day I'd destroy your happiness, Ranma. But it looks like you managed it all on your own."  
  
The umbrella flashed red in the bright sunlight. He snatched it from the air effortlessly--almost as easily as Ranma had dodged its razor edge.  
"No matter what it takes," Ryouga snarled, "I shall destroy your happiness."  
Ranma looked askew to Akane. "Am I happy?"  
"Don't ask me!"  
But he had been, then.  
  
Ryouga kept talking. In the dark under the vaulted ceiling, as Ranma remained silent.  
"Seems like your curse finally caught up to you. You always liked to complain but you never really knew how bad it could be. For the rest of us. Mousse and Shampoo, and me. You always had it so easy. Cold water and you lost a few inches, turned a little curvy . . . big deal. So what. We turn into animals, Ranma. Animals! And you have no idea of what that's like. How helpless we feel. Defenseless. You can't even--well. I had nightmares, you know, for weeks after the fight with Herb. I'm sure Mousse did as well. We were trapped! Trapped as beasts. What kind of life could we have had? But you saved us, Ranma.  
"--have any idea how many times I've almost been eaten? Eaten. I've almost ended up a meal. Can you--  
"--so you'll have to excuse me, Ranma, if I don't have much pity for you."  
Ranma pressed his thighs together tightly and hugged his knees to his chest. He looked up at Ryouga. He could see him a little better despite the dark. His rival looked away and stood and took a few steps.  
"This isn't how I wanted to win, Ranma," Ryouga said, speaking over his shoulder. "There was no honour to be won tonight."  
He couldn't think of anything to say other than, "Sorry." For not giving a damn. For being pregnant. For getting himself raped. For not fighting better. For letting everyone down.  
A short, cold laugh. "I'm going to take a walk, Ranma."  
"Bye."  
"I'll be back in a month."  
I tried going away too, Ranma thought. And everything was so much worse when I came back.  
Ryouga turned sharply and fixed him with a gaze that seemed to glisten in the faint light. "I'll . . . I'll be back in a month! For a rematch. Another fight. You understand? I can't accept this. I won't accept this! When next we meet, I'll send you to Hell, Ranma! But it'll be the hell _I_ choose for you. . . ."  
Ranma watched as his friend fled from the dojo into the empty night.  
  
Ranma decided to stand up and go for a walk himself. It didn't occur to him to head back into the house. Or to find a shirt or grab his shoes. The air was cool and refreshing against his bare torso. He walked with a slight limp. As he walked he examined himself with some wonder. The angry red welts from earlier were almost hidden within the bruises Ryouga had given him. They spread across his sides and stomach. The pain was dull but persistent, and somehow didn't seem to matter. He would heal. Looking down at himself he had to look past his breasts. They were bruised as well. He hefted one in his hand and felt its soft weight in his palm. The nipple stood partially erect in the cool air. Is this why he wanted me? Ranma wondered. Because of this? Did he hold them in his hands like this before he . . . before he . . .  
No. He blinked rapidly against tears he felt forming. No. Ranma kept walking, but found himself stepping down a side street. He suddenly didn't want to be seen. Not all battered and bruised like this. He felt exposed, vulnerable. With tears in his eyes. What would people think?  
They'd think that the winner lost. They'd think you look like a rape victim.  
He broke into a run, and managed only a few steps before the pain in his leg sent him sprawling. He hit the wall hard and crashed into a garbage can before falling to the ground. The metal lid hit the ground with a resounding clang. Terrified of being seen he scrambled away on all fours and regained his footing and fled down the alley. He found himself huddled behind machinery in an alcove behind some business--the hum and vibration of the machine and the hot, curling wisps of steam that escaped the vent comforted him. At first Ranma couldn't hear much. He held himself and shivered. Then there were voices: the voices of men raised in cheer, businessmen drinking in a bar. A little down the alley a door stood open, shedding light and happy sounds. It was too much to take; Ranma ran again, as quickly as his leg would allow him. He gave up on trying to wipe the tears from his eyes, not even knowing why he was crying, not caring, not understanding what he was feeling but suddenly inexplicably afraid of the dark.  
Instinct led him through the shadowed streets of Nerima. Once he stopped he slumped to the ground and thankfully leaned back against the smooth concrete behind him. Slowly the furious pounding of his heart subsided. He looked around but it took a few moments to recognize his surroundings. Shallow water flowed sluggishly by. Pebbles rolled beneath his bare feet. The underbelly of the bridge stood stark and gray against the starry night overhead. The ground around him had been disturbed recently. Other people escaped to this place as well. He felt comfortable and safe. Ranma decided to rest here. At this moment he couldn't think of anywhere else he would rather be. Other than the quiet murmur of the canal it was quiet. Light spilled over the side of the bridge overhead and sent scuttling glimmers along the edge of ripples in the water. He lost himself in the play of light and sat there without thought.  
Stones crunched underfoot at her approach. The weight of her step, a faint smell: he knew it was Akane. He didn't acknowledge her presence; he had nothing to say. He watched the water flow past. After a storm like today it would take some time for the canal to drop back to its normal level. She seemed to carry with her the presence of the world he had left behind: the wind, murmuring to him softly, the city, distant and full of harsh, angry noises, the footsteps of a couple crossing the bridge. Ranma felt little need to add to the multiplicities of sound intruding on his retreat.  
"Ranma?" Her voice was tentative. He picked at the stones between his toes. "Ranma, I brought some things for you." She moved in front of him. Her steps were as hesitant as her words. She had a bag with her. She pulled out a shirt and some shoes. "I found Ryouga lost in our kitchen." Akane gave a wan smile. "He looked pretty rough. He told me that you two fought, and that he left you in the dojo. But you weren't there." She offered up the shirt. It was one of hers. Black and pink, cute. She looked sheepish. "I left the house in a hurry and grabbed the first things I could find." The shoes were his, though. She hesitated. "And . . . I brought a thermos. Hot water."  
  
". . . then maybe I'll just throw it away!"  
"No!" he cried out. "Meanie! Meanie!"  
The sky a startling blue. An argument, battle, a wound, late for class, bucket duty, another fight, a three story fall into a swimming pool: his first day at school. Sitting in a tree ringing out his pants. His breast smarting where Kuno had mauled it. Later it would purple slightly, a bruised reminder. The first time a man had touched him there.  
"Whither Ranma Saotome?"  
  
Akane was waiting for an answer. Holding the thermos and clothes, watching him expectantly. Ranma understood that he was supposed to say something now. He had nothing to say. He thought back to what he said to Ryouga and wondered that so much was spoken aloud. But then, Ryouga had earned his answers through pain. Not that my words hold any value. My words aren't precious. A man's words are only worth as much as the man himself.  
"Ranma? Aren't you going to say anything?"  
No. Because nothing he could say would help. Could only make things worse. There was something gnawing inside of him. Staring at the waves drew him outside of himself and helped him forget. The backlit clouds scuttling across the sky, grey on black. Insistent curls of green pushing their way through the stones at the water's edge. Akane's voice pulled him away from all that. What was he trying to forget? He only had her word that anything had happened. Except that he had known all along that something was wrong, not just with Akane but with himself. Nightmares, images flashing across his mind he tried to ignore, the physical feeling that something wasn't right: these had been haunting him for the last two weeks. When Dr. Tofu and Akane had fumbled their way to telling him the truth. . . he hadn't doubted them for a second. His own doubts, unspoken, buried away, had been confirmed.  
But I don't _remember_ anything, he thought. I don't want to remember. But her voice insisted that he _should_ remember; and staring into the water his own shadowed reflection seemed to turn sinister and a darkened face somehow familiar stared back at him. He shivered and hugged himself tighter.  
She reached out to touch him.  
"Don't touch me," he said.  
Akane stayed her hand. "Can't you trust me?"  
He looked at her directly for the first time since her arrival. Kneeling next to him she watched him with brown eyes large with pity and concern. Ranma felt something burgeoning inside, a feeling rooted deep within that reached past the gnawing emptiness. It blossomed slowly but steadily as he stared into those limpid eyes, a diffuse warmth that felt all the hotter after the nothingness that had preceded it. Only once he found his fists clenched tightly at his side did he realize his whole body hummed with fury. He stared at Akane and felt such hatred that he almost felt physically ill. His vision swam with the effort of restraining what he felt. She probably thinks I'm crying again, Ranma thought.  
"How can I?" he said, the words sounding venomous to his own ears.  
The hurt that filled her eyes brought him pleasure. How can I feel this way towards you? he wondered. How can I want to say or do something to hurt you so badly? How can I trust her when she looks at me like that? With sudden insight he saw how open her pity left her. She was focused entirely outwards, all the guards she normally kept between them were laid low. It would be so easy to reach out and emotionally tear her apart--to twist that pity into hatred, or bitterness; he understood what pleasure causing that pain could bring him. He would rather see hatred in her eyes than pity. Anything but that.  
Her gaze underwent a subtle shift, a slight hardening: like a pane a glass tilted under light, her eyes were no longer clear but rather mirrored. He though he saw himself reflected there for a moment, his own anger thrown back at himself.  
"I'm sorry, Ranma," Akane said, though he couldn't imagine what for.  
Ranma didn't want to deal with all this: thinking, emotions, what was going through other peoples' heads, or through his own. "Go away," he said, looking away. His voice was calmer than he would have expected. Already he could feel that flash of rage draining away. "Leave me alone." He suddenly felt exhausted, pushing these few words past his lips more tiring than he would have imagined.  
"You have to talk about this, Ranma," Akane said. "You can't keep it all inside."  
"No," he said. Somehow that didn't seem enough. "It's been . . . a bad day," he said, and gave a dry, empty chuckle. "One really bad day, Akane." He took a deep breath. "I don't want to talk."  
But she didn't go away, and for a long time just sat there next to him. He wondered if she was watching the play of light across the waves as he was. Ranma felt himself withdrawing once again; the sounds of the city retreated further away. Yet her presence continued to intrude. He could smell her. Her girl's scent. When she finally spoke it came almost as a surprise.  
"Fine," Akane said. "Don't talk, then. I'll do all the talking. And then I'll leave you alone if you want me to. But I hope you won't, Ranma. Because you shouldn't be alone right now." Yes, I should be. "I . . . I can't imagine what you're thinking right now. What you feel." Nothing. "And I wish I could offer you more. Say something that could make things better somehow. But . . . but I don't know what to say, Ranma, I don't know what to do and I'm scared, I'm scared of what's going to happen to you and I'm scared that you'll just take off and and . . . and that it'll be all my fault, because I had this one chance to say the right thing and I wasn't smart enough to know what it should be.  
"But I know there's nothing I can say, not really. I don't know what you're feeling right now but I know that. Words aren't enough. Not for this. But . . . but maybe they can help. Ranma. I'm not very good at this. I'm sorry. I'm not Kasumi, or Nabiki, or your mother or . . . or even Ryouga, I guess. And you probably hate me right now." Yes. "I deserve that. I do. For everything that's happened." No. "Us fighting at the party. For you getting drunk." No. "And . . . for everything else, for what happened after, for what happened," no!, "for . . . oh, Ranma, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, it's all my fault--"  
"NO!"  
He hadn't realized he had moved until he felt Akane tremble beneath his grasp. Standing, he held her by the shoulders in a grip that had to be painfully tight, his face pressed closed to hers. Her eyes were wide with surprise and fright. Ranma wanted to shake her, he wanted to throw her down, he wanted to run away, he . . . he didn't know what he wanted to do but he couldn't bear to hear her speak another word.  
"Ranma?" Her voice was small and frightened.  
"Don't say that! Don't say any of that!" His whole body shook with indecision, but then he released her with a spastic jerk. She fell back a step before finding solid footing. "It's not your fault!" He stalked away from her, quick angry steps that brought him beyond the shadow of the bridge. He spun and stared at her. His breathing suddenly felt laboured. She stood there uncertainly, pale in the faint light. "It's not your fault, it's mine!"  
"Ranma, no!" she started to say, stepping towards him. "You can't believe--"  
"Shut up!" he screamed at her. "Shut the fuck up! This isn't your fault! This has _nothing_ to do with you! These were _my_ decisions, not yours! It was _my_ choice!"  
Ranma could see it in her eyes, the concern and the sympathy, a shimmering prelude to tears. He didn't want to see her like that. He never wanted her to look at him like that, couldn't bear to be pitied by her. He wanted to pluck out her eyes, wanted to bash her to the ground. He wanted her to leave and get as far away from him as possible because at this moment he couldn't trust himself. He wanted her to run away and look back over her shoulder at him in any other way, with anger or hate or fear or disgust or . . . love.  
"Please," she tried to interrupt.  
"Leave me alone!" he yelled at her. "Don't you understand? This isn't your fault and this isn't your problem and I don't. want. your. help! Go away!"  
Akane's face drained of colour. She stared back at him through tear- filled eyes, and then dropped the bag she was holding. "Fine." Without another word she turned and ran.  
The moment she twisted away Ranma regretted everything he had said and wished he could take them back, no matter how true his words might be. As she pulled away he suddenly felt alone . . . terribly alone, and the emptiness within threatened to overwhelm him again. It was tempting to slip back into that non-being again, empty of thought and feeling. Only now something nebulous and threatening hovered just beyond the edge of darkness . . . Ranma thought he could hear faint steps, or whispers.  
_aren't I your friend, Ranma?_  
He slapped his hands over his ears and whimpered. No.  
_yes, yes, Ranma, you are, please be a girl_  
He could feel it, the phantom trace of fingers passing across his stomach. Shuddering, Ranma squeezed his eyes shut. No, please . . . go away.  
_I'm sorry, Ranma_  
Hands on his breasts, the small of his back. Drifting lower. A heavy weight pushing him down. Couldn't breath. Paralysed with fear and remembrance. Of what was coming next. . . .  
_don't be scared_  
"Don't be scared." Arms encircled him, held him close.  
"Don't leave," he whispered. "Thank you for not leaving."  
"Not even if you ask me to," Akane said.  
  
The relief he felt at her presence quickly turned to bitterness, at her having seen him so weak, frightened, and blubbering like a little girl with a skinned knee. He hated her for hearing, coming back, and holding him tight as he trembled and whimpered until the memories receded. He loathed himself for hating her. He despised the glimmer of pity she couldn't conceal in her eyes. But he didn't want her to leave after all.  
They sat side by side beneath the bridge once again. He slipped on his shoes and pulled her shirt down over his head. It was a tight fit across his chest and brought the bruises Ryouga had left there back to mind. He didn't touch the thermos. His unbound hair hung in straggly lines across his face. Ranma suddenly felt exhausted and wanted nothing more than to sleep.  
"Are you hungry?" Akane asked.  
Ranma knew he ought to be but didn't have any appetite. The last time he had eaten had been breakfast, which now seemed ages ago. His father had stolen most of his food, even. He shook his head.  
"I know you don't want to talk about it," Akane said. "Maybe we should head home, then?"  
Again, he shook his head. "No," he said. "I don't have a home, remember?"  
He noticed her guilty wince. "That's not true."  
"'Get out of my house,' you said. Remember?"  
"I didn't mean it. I was angry. That was before--."  
"No!" he insisted. "Nothings changed."  
"Everything's changed, Ranma," she said softly.  
He watched her from the corner of his eye. She looked tired, her features drawn and wan. No wonder she wanted to go home. Of course, she wouldn't leave without him. I don't have anywhere else to go, he thought. But I can't follow her home either. There's too much there. Too many people.  
"I can't accept that," he said. "This morning you hated me--"  
"I didn't hate you."  
"You wanted me out of your life."  
"No. Yes." She took a deep breath. "I don't know. I was confused and didn't know what to do. I thought something horrible had been done to you. I was sick with worry. And I was angry with you. And you said those horrible things this morning and I thought you hated _me_ and . . . I made a mistake. I shouldn't have thrown you out. I should have--"  
"Stop it!" he cried. "Dammit, Akane, stop apologizing!"  
"But--"  
"You're saying this because . . . because of what's happened. But your feelings haven't changed. You just think they have, because when you look at me now you see . . . you don't see _me_, you see what happened to me. And all you feel is pity. I don't want your pity, Akane. I don't want anyone's pity."  
Some of what he said hit home. She dropped her gaze and fiddled with the strap of her bag. Eventually she stopped and in a low, defeated voice said, "I wish we had never gone to that party."  
There was nothing he could add to that. The different possibilities of the past were closed to him now. Nor could he imagine a future for himself after what had happened.  
Akane pulled a small white box with a green cross from her bag. "I brought this, too." It was a first aid kit. "Ryouga said he beat you up pretty bad."  
Yes, because I'm weak, he thought. And then: I'll get him back in a month. The very idea took him by surprise and he didn't know where it came from. It was impossible.  
She opened the kit and started to pull out bandages and ointment. "Let me have a look at those cuts on your face."  
"Don't bother," he said. "It won't make any difference."  
  
"It doesn't make any difference at all."  
Outside the wind blew heavily, rattling the sliding doors of the dojo. He sat cross-legged, still smarting from the dozens of punches and kicks received this morning. And from a single disgusting kiss he hadn't been able to stop.  
"But really, to let yourself be kissed so easily!" The antiseptic swab stung as she cleaned a cut across his left cheek, and covered it with a square plaster. Mikado's skates had left their mark.  
"Ouch."  
She stuck a bandage across the bridge of his nose. "You haven't trained enough."  
  
I trained my whole life, he thought, and it wasn't enough.  
"Sorry if that stung," Akane said, cleaning a cut over his eye. The pasting Ryouga had given him was far worse than anything Mikado was capable of.  
"If you don't mind, then I don't," he said. He gave a hollow laugh.  
"Excuse me?"  
Everything had been so much simpler back then. Or had it? He looked at the girl kneeling across from him, eying him quizzically. It had been so difficult. She had been so close. And he had wanted to kiss her then, badly. For so many conflicted reasons. The risks and possibilities had lain between them so thickly.  
Ranma took Akane by the shoulders, this time gently, and leaned forward and kissed her. Their lips met and he felt her surprise, but then she relaxed and her lips softened into his kiss. It was so easy now. Their lips parted; her tongue brushed his. He breathed in through the curtain of her hair. His hands curled through the thinness of her shirt and gripped the strength beneath. She submitted to his embrace, arms limp at her side. He held her for a long moment and slowly drew back.  
She passed the back of her hand across her lips, slowly, and as she did she looked at him with eyes that were hopeful and confused, then hurt, and finally sad. Akane looked away and closed the first aid kit. "Why now, Ranma?"  
Because I don't have anything to lose anymore. "I don't know."  
"I wouldn't have minded, back then."  
"Same here." He sighed. "I was afraid, I guess. I loved you so much."  
A sharp intake of breath. She spun on him; gravel crunched loudly beneath her foot. "What did you say?"  
He shrugged. "It doesn't matter."  
"How dare you," she hissed. "How dare you say that now?"  
"Would have saying it earlier made a difference?"  
She stared at him with mouth agape. "Would it-- how can-- you--," she finally managed, before sputtering into silence. He watched with fascination as her jaw tightened. Something hot began to smoulder in the depths of her eyes. Ranma felt a sudden and unexpected elation at the notion that he had angered Akane. He wanted to see her in the full bloom of anger; he wanted her to scream. He wanted her to hurt him.  
"Why do you care?" he asked, with a hint of the taunting voice that never failed to enrage her.  
Akane surprised him by visibly restraining herself. "I . . . don't know," she said. She suddenly seemed distant from him. In the pale moonlight the lines of her anger were removed, and she appeared cold, almost uncaring. But when she asked, "How long have you known?" her voice trembled slightly, like someone asking with sick fascination about a terrible accident involving someone they knew.  
Since this morning, he was going to say, but he hesitated. He wasn't going to lie to her--not about this, not right now. The varied and tumultuous emotions her presence triggered briefly quelled . . . anger, sadness, bitterness faded and he felt an unexpected moment of tranquility as he looked over at her. What he had felt this morning was only an expression of something that had existed un-admitted for far longer. Ranma's mind slipped back, touching on the shared experiences between them. Valentines' Day and a chocolate heart. An encounter in a closet over a jealous dogi; is that where it started? No, much earlier. A hot spring resort and the curse of an offended doll. The magic of a legendary umbrella--a brief moment, hesitant smiles shared beneath tattered cover when the myth nearly seemed true. A glimpse of something that had already been there. Further back. Ryugenzawa. Yes, Ryugenzawa. The emptiness left by her choosing Shinnosuke . . . the submission to her decision, the sudden willingness to die for her so she could live happy with someone else; wasn't that love? Maybe, but it hadn't started there. Returning from his battle with Herb, an embrace shared without defences between them. Another embrace: attempted revenge on Nabiki that became something unexpected, something precious. Before then, even. What he felt for her as she hefted her own pack to join him when it seemed his strength was gone for good. But that memory was tainted with the pity she felt for him, the resentment he felt for her, emotions that returned to him with the clarity of an echo. Even then he couldn't bear to appear weak before her, couldn't accept her pity, refused to fail her in any way . . . but if he hadn't cared for Akane, what would her opinion have mattered?  
With a clarity that momentarily seemed to overwhelm his present surroundings, he suddenly remembered the precise moment when he first realized that he loved Akane. There was nothing exceptional about the moment--other than the realization itself--no heroic rescue or declaration of passion . . . just a moment much like any other, a quiet, relaxed time spent in her company when he looked over and saw her by the soft light at night and felt a sudden, inexorable tightening in his chest. She was sitting so close to him. He couldn't continue looking at her. He felt faint, his mind reeling, and dropped his gaze. Brightly coloured leaves. Vivid yellow. Her sundress. The wood of the floor solid beneath his palm. Faint wisps of smoke wafting from the hollow porcelain pig set behind them. Sakura blossom pattern scattered across the paper fan in his hand. Bright red slices of watermelon sitting on a plate next to Akane. The house was quiet as they relaxed by the entrance. The garden was calm in the summer air. Moonlight glistened in silvery drops against a stone lantern. When he looked back she tilted her head and gave a little smile, a cute wrinkling of her nose.  
"Ranma?"  
It was loose stone beneath his feet, not wood, and the wind was far colder tonight than it had been then. The woman sitting across from him wasn't smiling. "Remember a year ago, maybe a bit more, when Ryouga came after me with the breaking point?" She nodded and he continued, relishing the memory. Rancid curry. The Dodge of a Thousand Bees. A real fight-- one of the first to force him to his limits and beyond. Flitting through the trees, mind racing faster than ever before, Ryouga waiting strong and nigh indestructible, and the sudden creation of a new technique, knowledge and practice coming together with such seeming simplicity that it was all he could do to keep himself from laughing out loud as he launched himself at his rival--  
"I remember," Akane said. He took a deep breath, forcefully relaxing muscles that felt ready to spring forward. "It was a few days after that. I don't know. Ryouga had left. We were sitting and looking out over the garden. There wasn't anything special, really." He shrugged. "But that's when I knew."  
In the weighty silence that followed he suddenly realized how much her response would mean to him. He watched carefully for any reaction, the faintest of smiles, a slight blush, a hesitant shifting of her eyes. What do I want her to say? That she loved me too, and I lost her because I never said anything? If I'd told her the night of the party we wouldn't have fought, I wouldn't have drank, I wouldn't have been-- been-- Her loving me then, would make all this so much worse. And if she didn't love me? His mind quailed at the thought. No answer would suffice. He felt himself withdrawing from her. He needed to distance himself. From her, away from everything. Emptiness. He wanted to be numb to these conflicted feelings. So very tired, Ranma no longer wanted her to answer.  
Akane leaned forward and pulled him into an embrace. She kissed him tenderly on the forehead and held him close. "Come home with me, Ranma," she whispered into his ear. "Please, just . . . come home."  
The physical contact with her brought back a swell of emotions he could not repress. "I can't," he said, but the words caught in his throat. "I--" Ranma felt so small in her arms. He wanted nothing more then to lose himself into Akane. The briefly enjoyed clarity and peace of memory slipped away nearly as quickly as it had come, and the contrast between what he had been _then_ and what he was _now_--it was more than he could handle. How much was lost in a moment he could not even remember? What was he now? A broken, empty girl. A victim. Weak. He felt the tears well up in his eyes, the sobs that threatened to overwhelm him. "I--" I won't cry. I won't break down. I won't be a loser, not in front of Akane not again after what I said as a girl I can let go, no, let go, "Let go!" With a strangled sob he tore free of her hold and fell to one side, scrabbling into the gravel, chest heaving with each breath. He could still feel the hands sliding across his flesh, holding him, possessing him. "I can't!" he wailed. The tears came then and wouldn't stop. Trying to pull away his strength gave out and he collapsed to the ground. Cold earth between his fingers, pressing into his face, the taste and smell in his mouth and nose. He couldn't stop crying. He couldn't escape the feeling of someone holding him. Pressing down on him. The nauseating ache deep in his belly. The need to curl tightly around the violation and squeeze until it ruptured; the impulse to tear the infection out. Half-crawling half- scrambling, he instinctively withdrew back into the comforting shadow of the bridge. His cries grew quiet, though no less intense; and a corner of his mind that briefly escaped the loathing and despair consuming him thought, I won't go back, I can't go back.  
This is all I deserve.  
  
Hiroshi looked out across the water. Sayuri's arms encircled him as she held him from behind. She laid her head against his back and released a contented sigh. If only Daisuke could see us now, he thought wryly. He felt like . . . like he was so much _more_ when he was with her. He felt something new and exhilarating and frightening when he held her close. I'm not sure, he thought, but there's a definite possibility that I'm falling for her badly.  
It was more than he could have ever hoped for: a sexy, smart, popular, funny and . . .well, sexy girlfriend who really seemed to like him. He kept waiting for things to go horribly wrong but so far nothing had; he wasn't screwing up or saying stupid stuff. (Or at least when I do, he thought, I can usually stumble my way through the right thing to make it better). He knew he ought to be elated. It was more than he deserved, certainly. He was out on a date with his girlfriend. He was out on a date with his _girlfriend_! The thought almost brought a smile to his lips.  
But it didn't.  
"I had a really good time tonight." Sayuri spoke softly into his back. He could feel her voice against his skin. "I didn't think I would, after a day like today." She gave him a quick hug. "But you made everything better. Hiroshi."  
A few meters below the water flowed by. After a storm like today it would take some time for the canal to drop back to its normal level. The night breeze was refreshing and the metal railing beneath his grip was cool. He suddenly realized that his grip was strong enough for his knuckles to whiten. He forced himself to relax. He turned within his girlfriend's grip, his mouth open to speak--he didn't know what he was going to say but the words were heavy on his tongue.  
Sayuri pressed into his chest and looked up him with a sultry gaze that robbed him of his words. She tilted her head up and her eyes closed languidly. Lips parted tentatively around the hint of a smile. Hiroshi leaned down and kissed her. One arm snaked around her waist and pulled her in. As their kiss deepened she squirmed closer, sighing contentedly into Hiroshi's mouth. It was with some surprise that he felt his other hand continue to squeeze the railing with an ever-tightening grip.  
She must have felt that something was wrong; she pulled away. Sayuri passed the back of her hand across her lips, in a gesture that Hiroshi always found curiously cat-like, and watched him with inquisitive eyes. "What's wrong?"  
"Nothing." Which was a lie, of course. He sighed and turned away and looked out across the water again. The canal was a dark line cutting its way towards the horizon, outlined on both sides by the glitter of house windows, pale street lights, and far in the distance the false dawn of Tokyo proper. Sayuri stood by him but didn't look away; he could feel her gaze upon him. He had nothing to say. He only had the faintest of ideas what was bothering him.  
Sayuri sighed herself. "Hiroshi," she said, with a faintly exasperated tone. "If something's wrong we should talk about it."  
He shook his head. "I'm not sure there's anything to talk about."  
"Something's bothering you."  
"It's nothing."  
"Is it Ranma?"  
His continued silence was probably answer enough. That was part of it. Something had changed--so much had changed--in the last few weeks. Since the party. Having Ranma open up on him. Growing closer to Sayuri. The viciousness of former friends towards the martial artist. Watching-- and not doing anything to stop it. An unexpected complexity to Uehara. Ranma's forgiveness. And now tonight. Hiroshi suddenly felt an unexpected potential to the night air, as if saying the right thing--or the wrong thing--right now could lead to irrevocable change. It was an exhilarating feeling, a frightening feeling. High school always felt static, so preordained, empty of real choice; did he really have the power to change things? Hiroshi suddenly realized that the entire evening had been working up to this point. He had made a bet with Daisuke not long ago.  
Without any clear idea of what he was going to choose, he turned back to Sayuri.  
"You're right," Hiroshi said. "There _is_ something we have to talk about."  
  
Beneath the bridge two girls sat in silence. The smaller one was asleep in the arms of the other. She shivered often and moaned softly in her sleep. Her face was streaked with dirt. The other girl leaned back against the arch of the bridge and held her companion closely. The voices overhead eventually left. At first she wept quietly but eventually she stopped. The night grew quiet and still. The two would remain there until the dawn streaked the sky red and the canal waters ran shallow once again.  
  
Continues in Choices: Decision, part two.  
  
Jan 12, 2004.  
  
***  
  
This chapter has been nearly two years coming, which I admit is somewhat ridiculous, and I apologize for the wait to those few who might still be following this story. I never expected this chapter to be so long (nor the whole story, really), which is why it's only 'part one'... I'll be getting a start on Decision, part two soon, and hopefully it won't take as long. It's funny how I can trace broad periods of my life through this story... in the case of this chapter it saw me leave Japan, go back to Japan, come back once again, and return to school; I guess it's a well traveled chapter. Some other fun stuff happened, but I'll leave that to my webpage.  
  
This is a draft. There's some stuff I would like to add after it's sat for a bit and I give a final revision. Kasumi needs to be tweaked a bit. I wanted to add a little insight into Sayuri with her own scene. The ending with Hiroshi and Sayuri could probably be fleshed out some more. I'm not entirely satisfied with the final couple of pages between Ranma and Akane-- how much is too much, when writing a character in Ranma's state?  
  
Decision, part two will wrap up some important loose threads and set the stage for what should be the final chapter, Consequences.  
  
-Michael Noakes  
  
e-mail: noakes_m@hotmail.com homepage: blog!: 


	6. Choices: Decision II finished draft

Sorry for the very long delay in updating this, and for the shortness of the updates. I had a major bout of writer's block, lasting over a year, but it seems to be loosening up now. This chapter of Decision is nearly done, huzzah!

Choices:

Decision, part two

by

Michael Noakes

Not until the light slipping between the curtains that fluttered in the occasional wind had crept high up the wall--until the light gained a reddish tint and lay softly in a diffuse glow against the far wall--did Akane begin to stir. She awoke slowly from a deep slumber broken only by faded dreams of a far-off voice whispering to her. At first she simply lay there, not so much feeling content as not feeling or thinking at all. She opened her eyes and recognized her room and had no recollection of how she had gotten here. There was her desk set next to her bed, the books standing in an ordered row, pens and pencils placed away in their holder. At the foot of the bed stood her closet. Hung against the wall her school uniform drooped heavily on its hanger in anticipation of tomorrow.

Akane sat up, blinking. She gazed without comprehension at the orderly state of her room. Her hand ached and she looked down at it and saw the dirty and tattered cloth bandage wrapped around it. In an instant everything that had happened came rushing back: searching through the night, the bridge, angry words, heavy silences, and holding a trembling, crying girl near as she drifted into sleep….

She sat there with the silence of the room broken only by the faint whispering of subtle wind slipping into the room. The world outside seemed subdued, rising occasionally in strength but always retreating to a subliminal buzz. Akane shook her head and fell back into the bed. She rolled over and pulled the covers up over her head, cocooning herself in warmth that bordered on stifling. She tried to sleep once again but found that it wouldn't come. The sounds outside became stronger and insistent, carried to her window by the breeze. They reached her even covered under the blankets as she was. The noise resolved itself into a voice:

"But she's been in there all day!"

…before receding once again.

All day? It was her first clear thought since waking. But that's impossible, she thought. Eventually she stuck her head out and looked at the colourful round clock sitting on the headboard. It was nearly seven o'clock. Night time, Akane realized. But that's impossible. We were under the bridge and Ranma was shaking in my arms and I was going to wait until she--

She shook her head dumbly. Until he. I was going to wait until he fell asleep and carry him back here. Akane slid her feet over the edge of her bed and sat up again. With a deep sign she realized that she must have nodded off herself. Did she find her own way home in some half-asleep state? I should stand up, she told herself. Go and find Ranma. He needs your help. But her feet stubbornly refused to move and she remained planted to her bed.

Some time later--the crimson wash against the far wall had disappeared to be replaced by the harsher flatness of artificial fluorescence--there was a hesitant knock on her door. Akane didn't answer. She didn't want whomever it was to leave. She didn't want the person to enter either. She didn't know what she wanted and stared blankly at the door.

The door opened a crack and a head poked in.

"Sis?"

Nabiki blinked a few times before adjusting to the dark. She slipped into Akane's room and quietly closed the door. Akane felt her sister's eyes for several long moments. Finally the older sister released a sigh and sat heavily on the bed. They both sat in silence. Akane felt mild surprise when she felt Nabiki's fingers spider across the distance between them and slip into her hand. Nabiki offered a tentative squeeze.

"You okay there?"

Akane looked at her but couldn't think of anything to say and therefore said nothing.

Nabiki swept an errant bang back beneath her ear. She offered a wry smile. "'Cuz I gotta tell you, you look like shit." The forced levity of her words sounded awkward in the silent room. Nabiki sighed again. "You want to talk about it?" With no answer forthcoming she added, "You're probably wondering how you got home."

The younger sister gave a small silent nod.

"It was Ranma," Nabiki said. "He carried you."

The answer made no sense to Akane. She was taking care of him. After what he had gone through last night he needed to be taken care of. She thought of the slight, shivering girl sleeping fitfully in her arms. How long had she held Ranma close, smoothing the hair away from his face? Long enough for the voices on the bridge to leave and for the city to grow silent and still. She had never seen her home city from that perspective before--from beneath a bridge by a softly flowing river late at night.

Akane shook her head. "He couldn't. . . ."

"He did," Nabiki interrupted. "He sneaked in at around 6 am. I was still awake and waiting, though I wouldn't have heard him if he hadn't come to my door." She shrugged at her sister's quizzical look. "He put you in your bed and then came to my room. He told me that he tapped a spot on your neck"--Akane reached back as Nabiki spoke and felt the back of her neck and found an area that was tender and lightly bruised--"so that you wouldn't wake up. He said you needed the sleep."

"He--"

"He was right, Akane. Like I said, you look terrible."

Akane took a deep breath. The lethargy she earlier felt burned away beneath the anger she felt at Ranma's actions. He had no right to knock her out like that--she could take care of herself! "Where did he go?" she asked, her voice only a little better than a growl.

"Dunno," Nabiki answered. "And you shouldn't go after him."

"Nabiki, he's my responsibility," Akane said. "I have to go after him."

"How is he your responsibility?" Nabiki asked, and she sounded exasperated. "He's not your fiancé . . . he's never been your fiancé, not really anyway. He's not even your boyfriend. It's Ranma, the guy who's been hanging around here for the last year and some and who's eaten our food and put you in danger time and time again. You don't owe him anything, sis."

"You don't understand!" Akane insisted, half-rising from the bed. Her sister's grip tightened, almost painfully so, and pulled her back. She could easily break free but didn't. Instead she looked back angrily at Nabiki. "Sis--it's my fault!"

"No, it's not."

"He needs my help."

"If he wanted your help he would've asked for it."

"I have to--"

"Akane, he asked me to tell you to leave him alone." The anger drained from Nabiki's voice and she looked even sad as she continued. "Akane, he doesn't want you around him right now."

The sudden pang she felt inside hurt more than she would have thought possible.

"Sis, he told me that he needed to be alone. And that if he was around you he was afraid--afraid he might say or do something he didn't want to. He was scared he might hurt you again."

That's not his decision to make, Akane thought. Not alone. He's hurt me so many times before and he's hurting me right now. Deeper inside she accepted and welcomed the pain as her proper due, as penance for her responsibility in what had happened to Ranma. Why should he trust me after how I've treated him?

Don't leave me--the whispered voice of a frightened young girl--the words wrapped themselves around her insistently. "Not even if you ask me to," Akane whispered. She felt her resolve harden once again. She pulled her hand free of her sister.

"What was that?"

Akane looked at Nabiki. She saw worry there, genuine concern for her well-being. It was not something she was used to seeing from her sister. Exhaustion hovered in the redness of her eyes and her pale and taut expression. Her sister was quick to decry Ranma and denounce him for a cheat, a vagrant, an egomaniac, and a leech; and given any chance she exploited him as much as possible.

"He also wanted me to give you this," and saying so Nabiki passed the thermos that Ranma had ignored last night.

Akane stared at the thermos and wondered what it signified. "He told me he loved me last night," she said.

"I know," Nabiki said, and smiled wanly. "Why do you think I've been looking for him all day?" She stood up and as she did so she released an exhausted sigh. "Now that you're awake I'm going to catch some sleep?" She staggered away but paused in the doorway. "He was a guy when I last saw him, okay? When you go looking--good luck, sis."

**(Scene Break)  
**

She went looking almost immediately, pausing only to throw on some clothes and to surreptitiously steal some food from the kitchen. It was already night by the time she began searching. It was another cool night and the silence she moved through seemed almost oppressive. The slap of her running feet against pavement sounded unnaturally loud in her eyes. Other sounds occasionally intruded--a tv turned on too loudly from a nearby house, or once children arguing in a park, eying her suspiciously as she passed by--but otherwise Akane felt as if she were passing, dreamlike, through some forgotten city. She moved quickly, occasionally calling out his name, running to all the possible spots. Her thoughts were random and scattered, though more than once they returned to Nabiki. How long had she and Ranma talked? Even as her breath began to burn in her throat she continued to search without expecting to find him. The searching felt nearly as important as actually finding him--more penance. How long did he run, she thought, after fleeing the clinic? How much did his lungs burn? She remembered the terrible raw marks on his forearms and across his stomach and continued to run late into the night.

Eventually she made her way home. Hopefully Nabiki had convinced Kasumi and her father once again that everything was okay. Akane felt exhausted yet hours away from sleep. If she couldn't find him then she could stay up and wait for his return. He had to return.

Holding on to that tenuous hope she slipped back into her home. The house was dark and silent as she padded through the entrance and quietly climbed the stairs. She wasn't used to this kind of subterfuge. Friends told her stories of sneaking away to meet friends for illicit vending machine beers, or for late-night secret rendezvous with boyfriends . . . rumours occasionally floated through the school of other girls--'bad' girls--who left home at night for questionable reasons and showed up at school late and tired looking but often with brand new and expensive-looking accessories, Gucci bags or Prada gloves, and they shared furtive glances and sly smiles with each other that silently spoke of an adult knowledge that seemed beyond Akane's understanding. Again she briefly wondered what it must be like to lead a normal life, one more concerned with boyfriends, homework and . . . and whatever else normal people dealt with. When she looked back over the last few months her highlights involved a crazy mirror clone--somehow she had almost ended up eternally trapped in a compact mirror--and all that nonsense with that ninja-transvestite Konatsu that somehow ended with her dressed in a Playboy bunny outfit.

No one noticed her return. She half expected the light to be on in her sister's room but she seemed to be asleep as well. Akane slipped into her own room, softly closing the door behind her. Again she wondered at the conversation between Ranma and her sister--at how long they had talked after he put her to bed and what he had told her. She sat at the edge of her bed in her darkened room. The moon through her open curtains threw a bluish tint across everything. Head in hands she wondered what more she could do. Was it past midnight yet? She had school tomorrow but that seemed very far off and unimportant. Was it too late to phone the people he knew, places he might have gone? Under the bridge, in the park, a few empty lots here and there, the top of the school: these places were his favourite spots when he wanted to be alone. But what if he wanted to talk to someone? She felt a pang of both sadness and jealousy at the thought that he might turn to someone else. 'He asked me to tell you to leave him alone,' Nabiki said, but obviously the two had talked at some length and now he might be finding the help he needed with one of his other friends . . . or fiancees even.

How can I be jealous, she thought to herself, at a time like this?

"Can I come in?"

Her head snapped up at the sound of his voice. Framed by the fluttering curtains in her window, half-in and half-out of her room, he crouched silhouetted against the light outside. She couldn't see his face. Seeing him like that brought back a sudden flurry of memories--how often had he hung from the eavesdropping over her window and tentatively knocked at her glass or laughed at her from outside? Seeing him in shadows she could still believe this was the Ranma of old--cocky and kind, arrogant and caring; in the dark she couldn't see the wounds along his stomach and arms.

Akane nodded. Soundlessly he slipped into the room, his soft footing not displacing a thing on her desk as he stepped down. She reached for her nightlight.

"Leave it off," he said, catching her by the wrist. Then his hand jerked away, releasing her. "Please."

His voice, the size of his profile in the dark--he was a guy again and she wondered if that meant anything. She scooted over to make some more room on the bed but he took the chair from her desk and pulled it across from her and sat there. The silence lengthened between them. She could feel his eyes upon her, but when he didn't initiate the conversation she suddenly felt at a loss as to what to say. All night while searching she hadn't actually thought of what she would do if he was actually found.

"Ranma," she started. "You . . . carried me home?"

She saw his nod. But when she opened her mouth to continue--unsure of what she was going to say--he interrupted her.

"No." For a moment his voice carried a hint of desperation, but then he continued in even, level tones that sounded strange coming from his mouth. "I mean, yes, I did. But I don't want to talk about that. I don't want to talk about today . . . at least, not yet. Not about last night. Or, or about the last week, about what's happened, about . . . me. For now I just want to ignore the last two weeks. Like they never happened."

"Sure. Sure, Ranma," Akane answered soothingly.

She thought she saw him frown but in the dark could not be sure. She felt a flash of annoyance and it spilled out before she could hold back. "Then what do you want to talk about?" she asked, more curtly than she would have liked. "I mean . . . you came back for a reason, right?"

Did he smile? "Yeah, I did." For a moment he sounded like himself, like the Ranma she knew. "I'm glad you asked. I've got a question for you, Akane."  
She felt trepidation at the way he said that. "Yes?"

"Two weeks ago. Remember the party?" The bitter undertone was painfully obvious. "Yeah. That's what I want to talk about. The party. Akane, why were you so angry that I wanted to come with you?"

The question took her completely by surprise and she didn't know how to respond. In fact, for a moment she could hardly even remember the party. It seemed so long ago, seemed like part of another life, another existence far simpler than the one she now knew. In that world she would never be sitting on the edge of her bed in a darkened room with her pregnant fiance sitting opposite her. In that world Ranma would never, ever have said that he loved her. But those possibilities were forever gone and she was acutely aware of where she was now, of the profound silence that lay between them, of the night time tint that blurred the edges of everything, of Ranma's slouched back and slumped shoulders as he sat opposite her . . . of the very closeness between them, her knees pressed together and his one leg thrust almost awkwardly out nearly brushing her foot.

Had she really been that angry?

(**Scene Break**)

"You are _not_ coming with me!"

"Who said I _wanted_ to go to your stupid party anyway!"

Not another fight, she thought. Not again. I'm so tired of these stupid arguments. "If you don't want to go then stop bugging me!"

"Hey, this isn't my fault!" he retorted. "It's your father's."

"Whatever," she said. After a short train ride they were walking towards Kiyoshi's house. Everything Ranma did infuriated her more than usual: his cocky, strutting walk along the fence, the surly undertone of his voice. Why couldn't he leave her alone, just this once? "And you better not start any fights!"

"Hey!" he exclaimed. "Who do you think I am, Ryouga?"

"I'm serious, Ranma. No fighting. Promise!"

She could feel his stare before he turned away with a huff. "Fine! I promise."

"If you don't want to come, Ranma, then don't. I won't tell, believe me."

Ranma gave an angry snort. "Yeah, like I can trust someone as uncute as you to keep a secret."

She lashed out and punched the fence and nearly growled as he effortlessly hopped away from the impact. What the hell does being uncute have to do with keeping a secret? she wanted to yell at him. "Then just stay away from me!"

"Ha!" He gave a disbelieving laugh. "You think I want to be with you?"

What was with him tonight? Akane glared at him and wished he would just go away. This was _her_ party. Sayuri had invited her and not Ranma; no one had invited Ranma. If Nabiki hadn't mentioned something over supper he might never had known. Odds are something stupid and improbable would have happened after she left anyway and he would've spent the night chasing after a silly ghost or hanging out with one of his 'other' fiancees or fighting a new rival. This was _her_ night out and it was important to her--even if he didn't care.

"My daughter's going to a party! Waa!" Her father had wailed at the very notion of his daughter being old enough to go to a party, though she doubted he had any idea what that entailed. (She had to admit that she wasn't too sure either.) Then with the abruptness of a changed channel his mood shifted and became sombre. "A party's no place for a young girl to be alone."

"True, true," Mr. Saotome added, nodding solemnly. "Her fiance should be there to protect her."

From what? she wanted to scream at them.

But as they turned the corner and came into sight of Kyoshi's place she finally realized that it wasn't _just_ a party at all. She double-checked the address to make sure it was the right place--as if the loud music and loitering teenagers weren't evidence enough. The house was large and enclosed a large backyard within its walls and seemed, as Sayuri had put it with only the slightest of disdainful sniffs, very American in style. The party itself seemed very American as well--not that she was entirely sure what that meant, but the loud, boisterous energy, apparent at even this distance and totally unconcerned with anything but itself, seemed somehow very un-Japanese. Nervousness that had bubbled just beneath the surface welled up and she hesitated, wondering if she really wanted to do this. Her life was chaotic enough already; in fact, the violent randomness that was Ranma's life was something she was almost used to by now, it was something she understood and in some bizarre way felt even comfortable with. This blatant teenage recklessness was something new to her. The party had an 'aura', an energy that filled the air that had nothing to do with martial arts or fighting spirit.

She suddenly realized that she had no idea what people actually did at parties like this. Listen to music? Dance? Would she seem out of place if she didn't drink alcohol . . . she didn't like the idea of drinking; Mr. Saotome alone was evidence enough in her mind of where that long, dark road could lead. And behind that she felt a faint tickle of fear . . . perverted things happened at parties, didn't they?

"Huh." Ranma snorted at her side. "Don't see what's the big deal."

The disdain and absolute indifference that coiled around his words infuriated Akane. That he could stand there so coolly confident when she felt nervous and uncertain made a mockery of her own doubts. These were her friends and schoolmates and Nerima was her town--yet this, this . . . _jerk_ just waltzes in after a decade of wandering and invades her life; slips effortlessly into her friendships and school and town by the simple virtue of not caring what anyone thinks about him; and for this people actually like him, _respect_ him! It was unfair. Cruel, even, all the more so since he was so obviously oblivious of his classmates--or even worse, indifferent. Arrogant as well: he expected to be the centre of attention and had been for so long he hardly noticed it anymore.

(Even as these thoughts flashed across her mind Akane knew they weren't entirely true. After a year of living with Ranma she had seen moments--rare, unguarded, quiet snapshots--when fear seemed to dance in his eyes; a trembling sigh released unexpectedly; or he hesitated and seemed momentarily lost approaching the most mundane of tasks.)

And now here he was, standing next to her, again forcing his way into something she had wanted to do alone. He was always there. At school. At home. Everywhere she went. She wasn't even 'Akane' anymore. She was half of 'Ranma and Akane'--and always seemed to come last.

"You're right. It's no big deal," she said, turning to him. It was a struggle to keep her voice level. "So why don't you just go home?"

It surprised her how long it took him to answer, as if he was seriously considering her question. She had expected another quick retort, another insult. He glanced back at the party, tugging at his pigtail, before turning back to Akane. "You really don't want me here, do you Akane?" His tone was level as well; cool, even.

"No, I don't," she answered.

His eyes met hers and in the space between there hung all kinds of expectations. Possibilities, maybe. If she could just explain to him why this night was so important to her--if she could just understand it herself!--if she could just make him understand that she needed one night, just the one; everything would be okay. But as always the words weren't there. Only the anger, and the fear. . . .

Ranma turned back to the party and sighed, the release sounding tired and tremulous. "Huh." He looked back the way he had come, the walk to the train station and the ride back to the Tendos. To Akane's surprise he seemed ready to leave. "I could go hang out at Ukyou's," he said, obviously baiting her though the words held none of their usual insinuating undertones. "So our parents don't know I didn't go with you."

"Fine." Akane couldn't believe he was actually going to leave.

He stood there, poised on the knife's edge of indecision.

Perhaps he would have left. At that moment Hiroshi walked by, talking loudly with a classmate. Ranma flashed an infuriating grin and made his decision. "This might be fun after all," he said, and walked into the party.

(**Scene Break**)

"I was afraid," Akane said. So much easier to admit that now. Her bedroom was quite dark. The streetlight outside must have switched off. The sky had clouded over during her search earlier that night. Ranma was an indistinct, deeper shadow against the darkness that seeped in and blanketed her room. The silence felt like a third person slouched, sad and heavy, in the empty space between them. But no, even at this late an hour there was noise scurrying at the periphery, little mouse-like sounds that were only noticed in the absence of other distractions. The hum of the refrigerator clicking on and off, faintly heard through the floorboards. The wind chime hanging by the living room, a gift to Kasumi from their mother, twirling and ringing clearly throughout the night. The heavy, distant plop of fish in the pond perhaps lost in some aquatic dream--or nightmare--of their own.

"Of what?" Ranma asked. The way he asked, it sounded as if he was searching for confirmation of something he already knew.

"Of--so many things," she answered. "And it made me angry. I was nervous about going to the party. It seems so silly now. But I wanted to fit in. To do and say the right thing, to look right." She thought for a moment. "No, not really. Maybe a little. I was more worried about being 'Akane'--of being the Akane my friends knew from over a year ago. I really wanted to be that Akane, I think."

It was better, she thought. Talking this way. She couldn't have done it two weeks ago. Not before the party. But now . . . if she was thinking about Ranma's question then she could forget, even if for only a short time, about the reality that sat across from her in her quiet little bedroom. There hadn't been a rape--not yet. Her fiance wasn't pregnant. Not yet.

"Have you changed that much?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. Probably not. But it felt like I had. It seemed important. Really important, like the feeling had been building up for weeks. Since that nonsense with your mirror clone, I think. Maybe I was afraid that I _hadn't_ changed and thought that I should have."

He chuckled. Akane was surprised at the sound and by its lack of animosity towards either of them. "What?"

"I was just remembering something Nabiki told me tonight."

They said it almost in perfect sync with each other: "_you're not that deep_!"

The laugh they shared felt nice. Honest even, despite the precarious illusion she understood they had crafted around themselves.

"Were you really that afraid?" he asked after a moment of silence.

Akane realized that she had been. Not just before the party, but for far longer, though she didn't know why. "I think so." She shook her head. "I think I've been afraid of . . . of I don't know, maybe just _afraid_, for a long time now." She had always considered herself strong, confident through her martial arts and proud of her accomplishments at school. But through it all, she wondered, had she ever truly felt safe? She felt an uncomfortable ache deep in her gut and for some reason wondered if this was how Gosunkugi always felt. It was strange to think that she might have something in common with her scrawny little classmate.

"Huh."

She tensed up at his grunt, though only momentarily. "And that was the other thing that made me angry: the fact that you so clearly weren't. I mean, Ranma, I was really, really nervous about going to Kiyoshi's party. I think that's another reason I wanted to go alone so badly--to prove to myself that I could. And then there you were, as if you hadn't a worry in the world." Unlike now. "You didn't even seem to care. That party meant the world to me, for whatever reason, and it meant nothing to you and that made me angry. At you. At myself. You were--"

He cut her off with a sharp bark of laughter.

"Not afraid?" Ranma said. "Akane, I was terrified of stepping into that place!"

Her doubt was invisible in the dark but he must have sensed it for his shape coalesced from the shadows to lean closer. "Akane, the only reason I wanted to go to that stupid party was because you didn't want me to go. I was bein' a jerk." The admission was itself amazing, but anything surrounded by terrible and unlikely objects or events fades into triviality. Sitting here talking with Ranma--that was amazing; and terrible and unlikely, and at any moment she realized that this eggshell existence they had wrapped themselves in could splinter and crack open, spilling out--what?

"And I was angry, and a bit hurt, I guess, but that probably sounds kinda girly," he continued, his voice thoughtful but with a sardonic undertone which Akane suspected was becoming habitual . . . self-mockery, she feared, would taint him forever. "You didn't want me there because you had something to prove, but Akane--I couldn't even manage that!

"I mean, what do I know about shit like that? And guys like Hiroshi and Daisuke, yeah, sure, they're buddies but not really, you know? Don't know them all that well, really. The only people I knew here in Nerima are you, and your sisters and your dad; and Ukyou and Shampoo, of course. Ryouga and Mousse ain't around all that much these days, and I guess we're getting' along better than before but still--we're not close, tho' I guess better than it used t'be." She felt rather than saw his shrug. "And it's not like when we get together we 'party' or anything, yeah? I mean, that's what normal kids do, right?"

She wasn't so sure herself. What did she do with her friends before Ranma showed up? It seemed so very long ago, and even then she had been aware that she was somehow different than most of her friends. Nabiki certainly told her so often enough, and Kasumi as well in that passively disappointed way of hers. But there had still been sleepovers, and movie nights, and shopping trips . . . all things that Ranma, she perhaps fully realized for the first time, had never really experienced. And from his point of view, Akane--or at least the Akane she had been back then, on the first day they met--must have seemed so very 'normal'. "Sure," she answered. "I guess so."

"Yeah. No martial arts, no weird magic or stupid fathers hangin' out . . . Kiyoshi's place, it felt kinda weird to me. We got there and lookin' at the house and people realized if I stepped in there that I wouldn't have a clue what to do or say or how to act. And that wouldn't have been too bad, 'cus I thought I could hang out with you." He chuckled dryly. "I mean, yeah, you kept tellin' me you didn't want me there but you always say that, I figured you were just being, you know--"and he hesitated for a moment and she felt a momentary pang at the difficulty Ranma had at forming the word, "uncute.

"Then I saw that you really didn't want me there, and I couldn't figure out why but in a way it gave me an excuse to just take off."

"So why did you stay?" she asked. If only you had left, she thought. If only you hadn't been so stubborn.

"Hiroshi," he said.

(**Scene Break**)

Resting naked over crumpled bed sheets, staring at the reflection of himself in the mirror overhead cradling a likewise naked Sayuri in his arms, Hiroshi once again asked himself, with equal parts bemusement and incredulous joy--what the hell just happened?

His girlfriend sighed in her sleep and his embrace tightened slightly, instinctively, and he wondered at his own reaction. His eyes slipped from the mirror to the bared flesh next to him, sliding along the smooth dip of her slender shoulder before shifting away again, back to the mirror. The thought of what they'd just done and the reality of a naked girl in bed next to him was still too much to grasp . . . it left him with a trembling in his belly that he only knew as nervousness. But looking up at ceiling, at their reflection--there he saw two people comfortable with each other, possibly even in love. And watching himself he felt . . .

Holy shit! thought Hiroshi. I've just had sex! How cool is that? His bemused half-smile split in a huge grin that threatened to erupt into silly giggles. We argued, he thought, remembering last night. We fought. We made up. And then . . . then we came back here. To a love hotel--none of my friends have ever been to a love hotel!--and we talked and we made up some more and we kissed and we. . . . .

Woo hoo!

He watched as his hand slipped along the curves of Sayuri's body and rested comfortably across her left breast, small but firm in his palm, and he gave a small squeeze that felt both tentative and possessive. Hiroshi felt manlier than he'd ever known before, grown up and strong, confident in the feeling of a girl pressed up against him and held in the circle of his arms with one of her delicate hands pressed against the smooth expanse of his chest.

"Feeling frisky, are we?" Sayuri's voice was soft and sleepy. She lifted herself on one arm over him, her long hair sweeping across her face like a veil and tickling his chest. Hiroshi felt a strange tightness somewhere inside as he brushed her hair back with his hand and tucked it behind an ear. I want to see this again, he thought. I want to see this every morning: to wake up with a woman next to me, with long hair that tickles my chest as she wakes up and who sleeps with one hand pressed against my chest feeling for the beating of my heart. Sayuri sat back and let out a prodigious yawn and stretched her arms wide; her fingertips wiggled as she did and Hiroshi loved that about her; and at the same time he watched as her breasts shifted and flattened out and then dropped as she brought her arms down. I don't want to forget any of this, he thought. My first time in bed with a girl, the first time I watch a girl wake up in the morning.

Perhaps feeling his watchful eyes, Sayuri paused and looked at him quizzically. "What you looking at?" she asked.

"You," he answered, and his face split in a wide grin. "You. God, you're so beautiful," he said.

She blushed; as he continued to stare her blushed deepened and spread, touching the slope of her breasts pink. "Stop that!" When he stuck his tongue out at her she took a pillow and smothered him with it. Laughing, he caught hold of her wrists and pulled her down and rolled onto her, and she poked him in that ticklish spot she'd found last night, and Sayuri flipped on top of him, giggling, and suddenly they slipped off the edge of the bed and landed with a thump and she sat on his chest with a triumphant grin. "Gotcha!"

You certainly did, Hiroshi thought. She gave him a quick kiss and stood. He watched as she padded towards the bathroom, lithe legs and pert bum. She stopped and looked back, eyes enigmatically glinting through the unkempt fall of her hair. "I'm going to take a shower, okay?" she said.

Hiroshi nodded. He remained lying on the floor, half-wrapped in the tangle of sheets they'd dragged off the bed, and his eyes drifted back to his reflection overhead as he heard the hiss of water start from the next room. It occurred to him that she wanted him to join her in the shower. Another first experience to remember.

"How can any of you hope to compete with legs like hers, a chest like hers?" He'd said that once to Sayuri, long ago it seemed, comparing her to Ranma's girl body. He'd seen Ranma naked before, brief glimpses before the martial artist managed to cover up, usually the result of some bizarre accident or sequence of events seemingly intended to get her out of her clothes. And Ranma did have an amazing body, slender, tight and firm but with surprisingly soft curves that belied his over-active lifestyle. But sexier than Sayuri? He must've been insane.

Standing on that bridge last night his thoughts had been so conflicted. He thought that he might break up with her. He thought he might confront her about the crusade against his friend. He had felt exhilarated at the palpable sense of possibility that filled him--something he had rarely if ever felt before--and that sense of empowerment to make a change had been temporarily overpowering. And something in Sayuri had responded to him . . . or perhaps, standing on that short bridge arcing over the water snaking into the dark distance, she'd felt filled with a similar sense of possibility. So much had changed around them over the last few weeks and instead of standing by and watching events flow past he felt compelled to grab hold and mould--something, to change something.

"Something's bothering you," Sayuri had said.

(**Scene Break**)

"It's nothing," Hiroshi answered.

"Is it Ranma?"

He understood at that moment Sayuri's own frustration with his friend--the sense that everything that happened in Nerima, or at least within the circle of Furikan, somehow had to be connected to Ranma. The frustration was all the more powerful because events so often did. But he realized at that moment that the swell of emotions he felt, hand tightly gripping the pitted bridge railing, was only peripherally connected to his friend. He wanted to help Ranma with his problems. But I also have my own problems to deal with.

"You're right," Hiroshi had said. "There is something we have to talk about."

Sayuri sighed. "You want to break up with me, don't you?"

He opened his mouth to answer. Closed it. Tried again--"Huh?"

She smiled wryly, but her voice was heavy. "You don't think I've been through this before? Getting dumped? Boys, they're always the same right before. They get all quiet and angry, and when you hug them it might as well be a plank of wood. There's the sullen silence and then you finally drag it out of them, they don't think it's working, they want their space or--whatever."

Hiroshi shook his head. "You're wrong. I don't want to break up with you."

"Come on," she said, sounding slightly exasperated. "The whole night's been leading up to this. I could tell. You're a really nice guy, Hiroshi, but you're a terrible liar."

"You said you'd had a good night," he said.

"I did." Sayuri shrugged. "Especially after what happened at school. But--all night, you were drawing away from me and growing more distant. And then you brought me here, to this bridge, and. . . ." She stopped, and swallowed, and her eyes grew damp and Hiroshi felt a sudden, terrible pang at the thought that she was about to cry. But she didn't. She sniffed and blinked and glared at him angrily. "Am I right? Is this what you want?"

It frightened him a little to think that she could read him so easily, especially as she remained such a closed book to him--or at least, a confusing and only dimly understood one, as if written in another language he was only vaguely familiar with. But this time she was wrong.

His eyes never left hers as he reached out to brush an errant bang from her face. She flinched and pulled away but he brushed his fingers across the length of her cheek.

"Damn you, Hiroshi."

"I don't want to break up with you," he said.

She turned back to him. "Then what's been wrong with you?"

"Sayuri . . . I don't know. I don't know! I've never done this before." He looked out across the water again, speaking into the night. "You talk about how guys act before they break up, and I realize that this isn't something new for you, you've had other boyfriends before and you're, well, good at this, at relationships, and meanwhile I've absolutely no clue what's going on, you're the first girlfriend I've ever had and I'm constantly scared of screwing up . . . but then I look at you or you touch my arm and suddenly I'm even more scared that you'll finally realize that you can do so much better than me and then you'll be gone. You'll be gone and I have no idea what that means.

"And so, yeah, tonight I thought I was going to break up with you. I was going to . . . to cut my losses, I guess, end it now because I know that if it doesn't happen now, when it does happen--

"And then there's all that stuff with Ranma, and he's my friend and you hate the guy, and that seemed so important and, well, it is important, and I felt like I had to do something about the way you treat him at school--

"And . . . and I don't know, there was just so much building up inside and it seemed like the right thing to do was to just, just end it, and so maybe you're right, I've been burning bridges and now here we are. . . ."

Hiroshi sighed. "And now I know it has nothing to do with Ranma, or any of that other stuff, because I look at you and I realize that the only right thing to do is whatever it takes to hold on to you, Sayuri. I thought I had to break up with you because it would be easier that way but I'd rather everything be difficult and scary."

He stopped talking, suddenly exhausted and nearly trembling with the effort of having spoken. The silence that followed seemed unnaturally deep. He had a sudden panic at the thought of Sayuri sneaking away as talked, that she was gone and he'd just spoken his words to an uncaring night sky. He turned around.

Sayuri stood there, silently staring at him with angry eyes that shimmered in the gleam of the electric light overhead.

"Sayuri?"

"Hiroshi, you're an idiot!"

And after that it all became a bit blurry, because she hit him, and then kissed him, called him an idiot several times and kissed him several more, and then they talked for hours, at first with their feet dangling over the edge of the bridge but eventually moving on, walking through the quiet streets of Nerima. By then it was quite late, the sky already tinted by the dawn, and they both knew they'd be in trouble when they got home and in a sudden and unexpected streak of rebelliousness they stopped at a love hotel. It had been Sayuri's suggestion. When the words had escaped her lips, hesitant but quick, eyes wide as if in shock, he'd felt a sickening churning in his own stomach, and knew that staying with her would be difficult and scary indeed.

(**Scene Break**)

Under the bridge that night, with a small girl cradled in her arms that slept fitfully, occasionally shivering and crying out softly, Akane overheard the discussion between Sayuri and her boyfriend. For the full hour that they argued and talked and sat and made up (and made out) overhead, Akane sat in the gravel, smoothing the hair of her former fiancé and listening quietly. She wanted to feel angry or jealous, or even happy for her girlfriend. Mostly she felt nothing, staring down at Ranma's face. His face was gritty with dirt and mud, streaked by tears, caked with blood, bruised and battered after his fight with Ryouga. She dabbed at that face with the edge of her shirt and tried to wipe away the worst of it. It helped, but only a little. The cuts and bruises were deep and would take time to heal.

He's really quite pretty, Akane thought. She stared down at his face. She looked at him in a way that she had never managed before, unclouded by jealousy or anger. Even marred by fighting it was obvious why so many of the boys lusted after him, why Kuno, filtered through an obsessive and delusional lens, loved him so strongly. That she was really a boy meant nothing when you looked at the girl like this.

Why couldn't we have a single moment like this? Akane thought. It's not fair. It's not fair, we were never able to just be friends, to try and be boyfriend and girlfriend, a normal couple, have normal fights or an ordinary night out. Sayuri and Hiroshi's voices had faded into silence, until she heard a subdued giggle from overhead. She imagined sitting at home watching a movie with Ranma's head in her lap. He'd have a bowl of popcorn, shovelling his mouth full before suddenly remembering to pass some up to her. She'd lean down and give him a light kiss on the forehead. He'd probably grunt and continue to watch the movie, and she'd feel annoyed until she felt a tender squeeze at her ankle, maybe he'd reach down and massage her foot and they'd watch the rest of the movie in silence, together and comfortable with each other's company and touch. Isn't that what normal couples do, she wondered?

Instead, Akane thought, suddenly snapping back to the present, to her darkened room and the boy hiding in the shadows across from her and the impossible distance that now lay between them; instead, the only time he's laid quietly in my lap is under a bridge sprawled in gravel, his body battered and his mind consumed with the horrors of the past day.

"Hiroshi?" she said, remembering him walk by as she argued with Ranma before the front gate to Kiyoshi's house. And she understood how the boy could have been the deciding factor in Ranma's joining the party . . . after all, hadn't her social fears been relaxed by the knowledge that she would be hanging out with Sayuri and Yuka and others from Furinkan at the party?

"Yeah." Ranma's voice sounded barely above a sigh. "And we did hang out a lot that night, at first. It was kind of nice, and a bit weird, and very different from being with, you know, Ryouga and those guys."

"Sure," Akane said. When he didn't continue she felt compelled to ask, "Do you hate him now?"

"What for?" His voice sounded genuinely surprised.

"He's the reason you went to the party, you said. If he hadn't walked by just then, you would've left. You wouldn't have stayed. You wouldn't have been--"

"If you and I hadn't fought," he interrupted, "I wouldn't have drank."

Her breath caught in her throat. The room suddenly felt stifling hot.

Ranma sighed. "This isn't your fault, Akane."

"And it's not yours, Ranma," she said softly.

Neither said anything for some time after that. To her surprise, Akane realized that it was starting to grow lighter outside. Not the brilliance of true dawn, but the purplish glow of very early morning. When Ranma finally spoke it almost came as a surprise.

"It's been . . . a very long day, Akane."

Where had he been all day? She tried to imagine what must have gone through his mind after he dropped her off—what thoughts and feelings drove him over the last twelve hours or so. If she was honest she had to admit that she couldn't imagine . . . what did a guy feel after discovering that he'd been raped two weeks before, that he was pregnant, after his friend had attacked him and left him bruised and bleeding . . . after his fiancée had failed him?

"And I've got a lot to tell you. I . . . need your help. To make a decision. It's probably the most important I'll ever make. It's not what I was expecting to find when I went off this morning but . . . ." His voice trailed off into the dark momentarily. "So, please, just listen. I'll probably mess this up but I want to tell you what happened today. And I'm going to try and be as honest as I can. No more bullshit. Because this is too important, and I need you to understand. Okay? Can you just listen?"

Akane nodded.

(**Scene Break**)

"I went to. . . ," Ranma began, but then stopped. "Nah, I should start before that. Shit, this is gonna be harder than I thought." Akane watched him tug at his pigtail, a gesture so familiar that it brought both a pang of sadness and a small grin, hidden in the dim light, to her lips. She waited patiently and silently, for him to start over.

"Yeah, let's bring it back t'when I dropped you off. I gotta say, I was surprised when I woke up all, you know, as a girl and cuddled up to you and lying under that bridge. Couldn't figure out where I was for a bit, but then the night before came back, most of it anyway, and I guess we both fell asleep. And I'll be honest, Akane: I felt bad, waking up like that. It's not right. I shouldn't need protecting. I'm supposed t'be--strong. And there I was.

"And I know you were tryin' to help and all, and I'm not sure if I was angry or happy with you when I woke up in your arms. I think I might've hated you for a moment. I might've loved you, too. The two seem almost the same lately. Maybe I felt nothing, kinda dead inside, you know? I feel like that a lot. I knew I couldn't leave you there and you were lookin' pretty rough and you needed sleep so I tapped that spot at the back of your neck and carried you home. I know you're probably pissed off about that, but I don't think I could've dealt with talkin' to you this morning.

"And this morning . . . the streets, they were beautiful. They were quiet, and empty." He sighed and stood and walked over to the window and stared outside. Ranma reached down and picked up her coin bank, a small ceramic duck shaped like the one on her door nameplate, in whose hallow recesses a few lonely coins rattled. He toyed with it unconsciously as he continued talking.

"The sun wasn't quite up but the sky was turning lighter. There was a light mist coming up from the canal as the day warmed. You felt very light in my arms, Akane, and I don't think we passed a single person on the way here. I wonder if anyone would've said anything, at some rough-lookin' girl carrying an unconscious one in her arms. There wasn't a whole lot of thinkin' goin' on on that walk home. I might've talked to you a bit while you slept, but now I couldn't tell ya what about.

"Before I knew it we were back here. The light in Nabiki's room was on. I didn't want to talk to her so I came in through the back. She'd even set up a few traps, can you believe it? I still don't get that girl, whether she hates me or wants to help. Still, they were easy to get around and I brought you up to your room and put you to bed. I didn't know what to do next. I still don't. It's so hard to make decisions, now, Akane, how can I trust myself anymore? And so I sat in your room for a bit, kinda just watching over you, not really thinkin' about anything and then suddenly I found myself walking over to Nabiki's room and knocking on her door.

"'Come in, Ranma,' she said when she opened the door, and if she was at all surprised to see me she hid it well. That girl scares me. She took her seat and I grabbed the edge of the bed and sat there awkwardly not at all sure what I was doing there. I guess you could say that she was the one to break the ice.

"'So, you are going to keep the baby?' she asked."

Standing by the window, he put the fragile clay duck down. He glanced back at her before returning his gaze to outside. He gave a hollow laugh. "Can you believe I hadn't even thought about it? I mean--fuck! There's this thing inside of me, but it's not like I can feel it, the only way I know it's there is because Doc told me so, and so far all it's meant to me is proof that something happened at that party that I can't even remember. If this--thing, hadn't been left inside of me, I'd never have known I'd been . . . raped. I was raped, Akane. I was raped." His voice faltered for a moment, but when he finally continued he sounded stronger than before. "I've just been trying to wrap my head around that, what that means, but now there's a whole other thing to deal with. There's a fucking baby growing inside of me, even when I'm a guy, somehow, and I've got to decide . . . decide tonight, what I'm going to do about that.

"No, wait," he continued without even turning, "I'm not done. There's more. I need you to know where I've been today. Because after I had that friendly chat with Nabiki I knew I had to . . . get away. I left the house running. No idea where I was going. Not as bad as when I flipped out yesterday but . . . pretty close. It's all messed up inside, Akane, tryin' to deal with this shit and it's too much, every time I start trying to hold on to everything that's gone wrong, in my head, I start to lose it, everything slips away and I think I either freak out or just go totally numb. I'm not sure which is worse.

"I ended up at the train station. Where was I going? No idea. I stood there on the platform panting and pacing back and forth, like a--wild horse, caught in a burning stable. No wonder nobody asked me for a ticket. I was probably heading for the mountains, or the woods . . . another training session. Every other time I've had a big problem, I go off and train, get better, come back and everything gets fixed, yeah? But I can't do that this time. Maybe I understood that at some level, 'cuz when that first morning train pulled up, I just screamed and hollered and bolted from the station.

"When I stopped running I was in front of the Nekohanten.

"You're probably wondering what brought me there. Yeah, I kinda wondered that myself. After everything that old crone's done to me, the times I've been attacked by Mousse or Shampoo's tried to trick me . . . you'd think I'd've stayed far away from that place. But something still just brought me there. The place was closed; those little colourful windows were all dark inside and outside, the streets still empty, mostly, maybe just a couple of students heading to school. Yeah, I knew the shop wasn't going to open for a coupla hours yet and I started to think again and wonder what the hell I was doing there.

"I guess 'cuz it was so damn quiet that I finally noticed that it wasn't all quiet after all, there was noise from around back the restaurant. So I went and checked in the back alley, and go figure, there was Mousse, hauling out some trash and sweeping up the pavement with this tiny little hairbrush. His hair was all matted with grease and his robes weren't exactly white anymore, and I'd rather not know what you've gotta roll around in to turn 'em brown like that. I swear he probably looked worse than I did. He must've been at it for hours, scrubbing the ground with that thing. Never did find out what he'd done to piss off the old lady." He gave a short chuckle. "The guy's got sharp ears. He looked up when I stepped into the alley but obviously couldn't see me. He was in a bad mood. 'Who's there?' he called out, but I didn't answer. I figured anything I said would probably set him off, and I wasn't lookin' for a fight. I don't know what I was lookin' for but--yeah, not that. Goin' ten rounds with Ryouga was enough for the day.

"Not answering just pissed him off more, though, and he stood up and flicked his hair back and swept his robes out of the way, as if he was getting' ready to pounce. He adjusted his glasses and kinda squinted at me in that way he's got, and I swear, he sneered. 'Ranma,' he said, and it wasn't exactly friendly-like. 'Couldn't wait until opening hours to come mock the hired help, is that it? Wanted an early start on the gloating?'

"It's like, I haven't seen this guy in a couple of weeks and the first thing outta his mouth is an insult. Like it's my fault he'd pissed off Cologne. Still, like I said I wasn't lookin' for a fight. So I put my hands up and tried to calm him down a bit. 'Yo, relax Mousse,' I said. 'I'm just here 'cuz--just because, okay? I was walkin' by and just thought I'd see if anyone was up. I'm not looking to start anything. You okay? You're lookin' a little rough.'

"I think it freaked him out a bit, me askin' if he was okay, because for a moment he didn't seem to know what to do. He came a coupla steps closer and peered at me really intense-like. 'Is that Ranma?' he asked. "Because you don't sound like that jerk. You sound like a nice girl to me,' he said, and he adjusted his glasses again.

"I swear, I almost ripped him apart right there. But I didn't. Barely.

"Mousse gave a little snort. 'Well, I don't want your pity, Ranma. It's none of your business.'

"I'd have laughed if I wasn't choking back the urge to kill him. Pity? Yeah, can't say I've got much of that to waste on others, lately. 'Trust me,' I said, when I could talk again, 'I really don't give a shit.'

"I dunno, maybe it was my answer or something in the way I'd been talking but he came a bit closer and I guess I was finally near enough for him to see properly. He blinked a couple of times. He gave a low whistle. 'Wow. You look worse than I do.'

"Believe it or not, I hadn't really noticed until then. Even with those clothes you'd lent me I looked a mess. I wasn't half-naked anymore, but just about any bit of me showing was either bruised or cut. And the pain, well . . . I'm kinda good at tuning it out when I have to, and I'd been ignoring it up till then. I guess him mentioning it brought it back. Ryouga'd really done one over on me. And wouldn't you know but I suddenly felt really uncomfortable, being eyeballed by that guy, by Mousse of all people, even though he could probably barely see me, but I was standing there in that really tight t-shirt with my tits all in his face and I felt really exposed and suddenly kinda afraid."

His voice faltered for a moment. He wasn't looking out the window anymore. Against the brightening square of sky the silhouette slumped for a moment, leaving heavily against the desk on both arms with head hanging low. "Is that what it's gonna be like for now on, Akane? Me afraid of--everything, everywhere I go, anytime I'm within a coupla feet of a guy, any guy, when I'm a girl? I mean, we're talkin' about friggin' Mousse here; the guy's good but he's not that good, he couldn't give me a solid run for my money on his best day . . . last week, anyway. Now? He'd probably kick my ass.

"And I didn't want him pitying me any more than he wanted me to pity him. And I didn't want to be afraid of him or anyone. And I didn't want him looking at me or seeing me all beat up like that. And I was feeling scared, and angry, and I didn't know what to feel and I just kind of froze up in front of him and everything went a bit strange in my head for a moment.

"I'll say this about the blind jerk, though, maybe he can't see worth shit but he's damn perceptive when he wants to be. He knew something was off . . . that something'd gone wrong. Any other day he'd probabl've taken advantage of my weakness and given me a royal beat down. I'd have deserved it, too. But he didn't even ask what was up. Instead, he just stared at me without blinking for a long moment, those glasses of his shining white as the sun started comin' up behind, and I just trembled and shook in fronta him, clenching and unclenching my fists and trying to sort myself out. And then he turned towards the restaurant behind us. He didn't say a word. A small stone just kinda appeared in his hand from--well, from wherever he keeps all that shit stashed up his sleeve--and he tossed it against a window overhead. It clattered against the glass and there was an angry shout in Chinese, and a light came on upstairs. Then he bent back down to the ground, picked up his brush, and started scrubbing.

"'You owe me, Ranma,' he said, without looking up. A few moments later the door behind us that led into the restaurant banged open and there she was. Old Cologne, perched on that stupid stick of hers.

"The moment I saw her I think I figured out what I was doin' there. I suddenly realized just how much I respect that old goat. Yeah, sure, Cologne's a royal pain in the ass, and she's screwed me over big time in the past, and I swear that half the stuff she's done to me was done kinda like a game just to keep her entertained . . . but at the same time, any time I've had a problem, a really serious problem, she's been there to help, you know?

"In fact, other than Dr. Tofu she's always been there when I really needed her--and Tofu sorta took off soon after Cologne showed up. She helped with the Musk, and when the old freak stole my strength . . . and somehow, standin' there in the back alley with Cologne lookin' me over, I kinda expected her to solve this problem, too."

Ranma snorted. "Stupid, huh? But know what? It was amazing. There she was, and I swear she was about to swear at Mousse or somethin', but she saw me and froze, her eyes goin' all wide and surprised. She just sat there, balancing on that stick and staring at me for a long time, and I just kinda stood frozen too, staring back at her. And then suddenly she seemed to . . . I dunno, deflate, and she let out this really deep sigh and suddenly looked really, really old. She hopped down off of her staff and walked up to me.

"'Son-in-law,' she said, and her voice was really soft and tired-sounding. "What has happened to you?'"

His silhouette moved from the window and tossed itself back down into the chair. Ranma threw his head back, as if in silent laughter. Even in the slowly brightening room his features were covered in shadows, and his expression remained hidden. "She knew," he said. "One look and she knew. But I shouldn't've been surprised. 'Cuz you know why? Because when I stop and listen--I can tell, too. I know I said that it's only Tofu tellin' me that I know it really happened . . . but I think I knew, somehow, even before that . . . knew that somethin' was wrong. And when I stop and listen to my body, yeah, there's somethin' different. It's tough t'explain but it's there somehow in the way my chi flows, or somethin' like that. And Cologne? Yeah, she's good. One look and she not only saw the difference, she knew what it was and what had happened.

"The fact that she could tell that easily almost killed me, Akane. I . . . I . . . aw, shit Akane, I actually started crying, right there in front of her, with fuckin' Mousse right there in the alley, bawlin' my eyes out and snivelling like some dumbshit little girl with a skinned knee.

"Cryin' like that in fronta her was almost as bad as her knowin' what'd happened. I mean, I really respect that old crone . . . she's a pain but she's an awesome martial artist, yeah, and I've learnt a lot from her and I've always taken pride in taking whatever she's shovelled my way and doing her one better. And I think she's always had a bit of a soft-spot for me, or I'd like to think so . . . I mean, why else would she've taught me so many secret Amazon techniques and all? Who know what kinda plans she had in that twisted little mind of hers? But there was respect there, too.

"Man, did I ever let her down. . . .

"So, I stood there with these tears runnin' down my cheek, nothing as bad as last night but not lookin' all that manly, if you know what I mean. Mousse did his best to ignore me, I think. I must've freaked him out bad. He probably got a kick out of it, tho'. Bastard. And Cologne? She just kept starin' at me with those huge eyes of her, and finally she let out a big sigh, and then. . . ."

Ranma's voice trailed off, and grew silent, but his shoulders were visibly shaking. Akane wondered if he was crying, and whether she should reach over to comfort him--but then she heard a giggle, and realized that he was laughing to himself. "The old bitch hit me!" He laughed again, this time out loud. "She wacked me upside the head with that stick of hers, and I swear, even if I hadn't been a mess I wouldn't've seen it coming!

"So suddenly I'm seeing stars and I've hit the ground hard, and she jabs me with that stick and lifts my chin with the end and I'm starin' her right in the eyes and she says, 'We'll have none of that now, you hear?' And know what? It shut me up good. I nodded and stopped crying and got to my feet real quick like. She looked over at Mousse, who was kinda confused.

"'Son-in-law and I are heading into my private room to talk about a few things,' she said, and Mousse nodded. 'I don't want to be interrupted. By anyone.' She stopped for a moment but kept her eye on Mousse. 'And I mean anyone. Do you understand?'

"Yeah, Mousse understood. He looked confused but he stood up and brushed his robes off and nodded again. I guess he knew there were certain times ya didn't mess with Cologne. I gotta say, I'm not sure I've ever heard her speak so seriously. Maybe when Herb was around. She's scary when she wants to be.

"So we stepped into the restaurant and made our way to a back room, and Mousse followed and kinda stood guard outside. I took a seat and she hopped onto the table opposite me. We sat there for a long moment in silence. I mean, what was I supposed to say? I rubbed my head where she'd hit me. 'Nice one, granny,' I said.

"But all she did was shake her head in reply. "You are pregnant?" she said.

"I nodded without saying a word.

"'Have you been . . . intimate, with a male?'

"I felt my face burn when she put it like that, but once again I nodded.

"The expression on her face didn't change. 'Was the act voluntary?'

"'Of course not!' I shouted.

"'You were raped.'

"'Yeah,' I answered, my voice barely over a whisper."

Ranma fell silent again. When he continued his voice was less sure, questioning, no longer drawing on the past and suddenly afraid of where it found itself. "Granny's sure got a way with words, huh. But you know, I think the way she asked me really forced the point home. Worse, it made me think for the first time how other people might see this. I'm pregnant, Akane, and that means I've had . . . sex. And even if people are shocked by the fact that there's something growing inside of me, they're gonna think it's my fault it's there. Those who don't know about the curse, they'll just think, how sad, another silly young girl who's done something stupid.

"And the people who actually _know_ about the curse . . . !" He sighed. "I'm supposed to be a kick-ass martial artist. Best of my generation, and all that shit . . . who's going to believe that this could happen against my will? They're all going to think I wanted this to happen, I _let_ this happen, that I _chose_ to . . . to. . . ."

"You didn't choose anything, Ranma," Akane said softly.

"I know," he whispered, eyes boring into hers. After a few moments his stare became too much for her; she glanced away uncomfortably. When she looked back he had silently pulled his chair a little closer and was now sitting directly across from her, close enough for their knees to almost touch.

"So what did Cologne say after that?" she asked.

"Not much, to be honest," Ranma answered, and shrugged. "She stared at me for a long time and finally let out a long, deep sigh. She suddenly looked really tired and old. 'Why have you come here, Ranma?' she asked, and believe me, I noticed that she called me by name instead of 'Son-in-Law'.

"'I don't know,' I told her. 'I didn't—plan, I didn't—expect. . . I don't know what to do, I don't know what to . . . _do_, Cologne!' And from there, well . . . I kinda broke down into a rant, you know? I'm not sure what I said. Everything, I think, every thought that'd been bouncing around my head since you told me what had happened back in Tofu's office. I told her how scared I was. How sorry I was. I told her about the party, I think. And then I said how I'd failed as a martial artist, how weak I'd been, and how this . . . thing, inside of me, how being pregnant and all that was, well, going to destroy everything I was and had done and worked for over the last ten years. . . .

He shook his head. "Cologne was _not_ impressed. Next thing I know, her staff's an inch from the side of my temple and she's in my face and I'm not sure I've ever seen her that angry. 'I will not have you speak like that!' the old crone said, and those giant spooky eyes of hers stared straight into mine. 'Or I'll hit you so hard you won't come to until you've already birthed that child.' Man, was she ever pissed off! 'Nearly two years!' she said, 'You've been changing into a girl for nearly two years now, and have you learnt nothing?'

"She kinda went off on a rant of her own, then. About the Amazons, and how there was no dishonour in bearing a child, and how in times of duress some of the warriors of the tribe had sacrificed themselves to Jusenkyo so that their people could continue. Usually women turning themselves into men, of course, but there were even a couple of guys who did it, too, when they needed to get their numbers up, quick, after some terrible battle or disease or something.

"And she told me the most amazing story, Akane." He leaned in closer, his voice rising a little. "The old ghoul told me a story from her youth, when she was pregnant and went to war with a neighbouring tribe that had fallen under some kinda evil influence. They fought some major battle on the side of a mountain. Some of the martial arts she described sounded—amazing!" For a moment his eyes flashed with genuine enthusiasm, with sheer pleasure, something Akane hadn't seen in far too long. "And Cologne fought right in the middle of it, until the enemy was in retreat, even all pregnant with her belly huge and all.

"And once the enemy retreated, she sat down and damn well popped out her kid, right there on some bloodied battlefield on the side of a friggin' mountain! She handed the child over to one of the male aides who brought it back to the Amazon camp, and then Cologne hauled herself back to her feet and returned to the fight.

"'A birthing fit for an Amazon," she told me. That was Shampoo's grandmother. And the point of it all, Cologne said, was that she wasn't going to listen to any more nonsense about how being pregnant was the end of my life and somehow wiped out everything I'd accomplished."

But as Akane watched, Ranma's smile turned waned, then faded, and soon returned to the grim, empty countenance of before. "But even she had to admit that this is Japan, not the Amazon tribal lands. That I wasn't an Amazon. And that the rape made it a very different matter, indeed."

Akane surprised herself by reaching out and taking his hand. Even more surprisingly, he didn't pull away. He barely seemed to register the motion, staring off into space. "And then? Is that where you were all day, then?"

He focused on her, looking almost sheepish. "Ah, well . . . after Cologne talked to me, she ah . . . put me to work."

"She what?"

"Yeah, I know." He shook his head in disbelief, though a brief smile danced across his lips. "She threw an apron on me, and put me to work. And she worked me hard! First cleaning up alongside Mousse, waiting for the restaurant to open. And when the lunch rush came along, out front waitressing. And you know how busy that place gets when I work there! The place was really jumping. Mousse was flipping all over the place, using his chains and everything to clean up tables and toss-out rowdy customers that was taking too long. Shampoo was in the kitchen and tossing out food almost as fast as the old ghoul.

"And me? I was racing back and forth, balancing bowls and plates and it didn't stop for a couple of hours. And you know what? For those couple of hours, I didn't think once, not once! about all this other bullshit. It was just 'pork ramen for three!' and 'gyoza for two!' and 'more rice, and make it quick!'

"And when everything was done and Mousse had shut the shop down for the afternoon, Cologne came out of wherever she'd been hiding. She called me aside to show me something."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slender, small vial, plugged with cork and sealed with wax. He held it gingerly between forefinger and thumb and displayed it to Akane.

"What is it?" she asked.

"A cure," Ranma answered.

(**scene break**)

He staggered away from the Nekohanten in a daze. Clutched in his hand he held the tiny vial. He wouldn't let it go. Nothing could have pried it from him at that point. Ranma walked down random streets, mindless of where his wandering brought him. With each step he felt the weight on his shoulders lessen. It was an almost giddy feeling. This is it! he told himself. This will set everything right!

It won't change anything, a darker voice whispered in the back of his head. You'll still know what happened. You'll always remember. You were raped. A man took you and penetrated you. You know this. _Akane_ knows this. This changes nothing.

He tried to ignore the voice. He tried to ignore his own doubts, and Cologne's warning.

He wasn't surprised to find that his feet had brought him towards Ucchan's, but as he turned the final corner leading to her shop, he suddenly took fright and walked away down a side-street. Too many people already knew what had happened to him: Akane, Nabiki, Tofu, Cologne. Shampoo and Mousse must have been wondering what was going on. And with this vial—no one else would have to know.

Ryoga. Ryoga knew. Ranma suddenly fervently wished that the lost boy was around. I won't see that bastard for another month, he thought. The road ended at a small park. I need to talk to someone, he decided. I don't know what to do with this. I can't just—use it, not without talking to someone. Cologne refused to tell me what to do. I need someone's advice.

And then, stepping into the park just as the early setting sun touched the treetops in crimson hues, he heard a loud, controlled cry; and stepping a little further into the park he saw Kuno, sword raised above his head, practicing his Art.

(**scene break**)

"A cure?" Akane asked, not without apprehension. "For the curse?"

Ranma smiled wanly. "Not for the curse, no."

"Then for—"

"This thing inside me."

Akane stared at the tiny, fragile-looking vial with a growing sense of . . . what? She felt strong and conflicting emotions rising within.

"The Amazons use this," Ranma continued, "in the very rare case of an unwanted or impossible pregnancy. Often in the case of rape, appropriately enough, when the father threatens to pollute and weaken the family line." He held the vial up to the faint light now creeping in from outside. "It's a very powerful potion, Cologne told me, and it only works within a couple weeks of conception. At this stage, she says it won't kill me. It won't kill me, but I'll probably wish it had."

"You're going to ab—," Akane swallowed and struggled with the word. "You're going to—"

Ranma raised his hand. The other closed around the vial and slipped it back into a pocket. "I don't know," he said. "I thought—I thought I was going to. It seemed like such an easy thing to do. One little swallow and all these problems go away. My body's purged of this . . . this thing, and life goes back to normal.

"But it wouldn't go back to normal, would it? Because so much has happened since the party. And this thing, this thing inside of me . . . ."

"It would be dead," Akane finished.

Ranma leaned forward, his face suddenly close to hers, eyes wide and eager. "Would it be? Is it alive, Akane? If I do it now, am I killing a life? Or just cleaning out a little lump of flesh, some tiny blob, floating around inside me somewhere? Which is it, Akane?" His hand in hers grabbed hold of her wrist with sudden strength.

"This is the decision I have to make, Akane, and I have to make it tonight. Tonight! Even since I left that restaurant with this thing in my hand, I've been wrestling with this question. And now I need your help." He was speaking quickly, almost feverishly. "What do I do, Akane?"

"What do I do?"


	7. Choices: Consequences in progress

**Author's Notes**: Guess I'm on a roll here. This was originally meant to be part of Chapter 6, but as was commented, that chapter ends pretty good as is. Therefore, after roughly six years, the beginning of the final chapter of Choices!

Choices:

Consequences

by

Michael Noakes

Kuno didn't interrupt his practice at Ranma's approach. The pigtailed girl watched from a comfortable distance to the side as the kendoist worked through an elaborate sequence. Ranma wasn't sure if he'd ever watched his unwanted paramour practice before—usually, Kuno would launch himself into an embrace at first sight; or, Ranma grudgingly admitted, I assume the worse and have a go at him myself.

He's pretty damn good, Ranma thought. It wasn't a kendo form he was familiar with, though as watched he could decipher various sword combat techniques concealed within the smooth, fluid motions. Given an hour or two he was pretty sure he could learn the sequence, although he doubted he could achieve Kuno's mastery, the little touches and flourishes that made the form his own.

Ranma felt a brief tranquility settle over him. He felt content, watching Kuno practice. And he's not trying to show off, Ranma recognize, again with grudging respect. He hasn't altered his rhythm or effort just because I showed up. In the soft setting light the park was bathed in gentle red and golden hues that drifted in dappled patterns across the green grass. He took a seat on the soft earth. His fingers twisted unconsciously amidst the grass as he watched Kuno. Will I ever do that again? he wondered. Even if I drink this potion, will I ever return to the martial arts? Despite Cologne's insistence and stories of battleside birthing, he felt keenly aware of something missing within himself—a lost cockiness and confidence.

He knew he could learn the moves easily enough. That would never go away. But would he ever again do like Kuno was doing right now—not mimic the movements but possess them and make them his own? Not practice an exercise routine, but rather master an Art?

Kuno smoothly shifted from one sequence to the next, working through patterns of increasing complexity and physical demand. He practiced for nearly thirty minutes, as the sun slowly set behind him. Ranma very contently sat there and watched the whole time. The only sound was that of Kuno's blade slicing the wind.

When the kendoist finished he walked over and sat, cross-legged, across from Ranma. His face was flushed with exertion and shone with sweat. A cool breeze danced among the leaves.

Don't ruin it, Ranma thought. Please, don't.

And much to Ranma's surprise, Kuno remained silent. He sat there, his breathing slowly returning to normal, and stared off to the side and watched the sun settle behind the tress. Slowly, the sounds of the city beyond those trees filtered back, faint honks and rumbles of large trucks passing. The kendoist carefully laid his bokken across his lap. Ranma didn't hate his occasional rival, of course; in fact, he usually got quite a kick out of the guy, at least when he wasn't pawing at his girl body. And away from the school, he was occasionally capable of lucid moments and coherent conversation—and he had, over the last year or two, thrown a couple of good get-togethers at his place or trips on his yacht. Such gatherings almost always ended in chaos—as did any large gathering of Nerima martial artists—but still . . . good times, good times in the past.

Kuno finally broke the comfortable silence. "Pigtailed Girl?" His voice was surprisingly sombre.

"Yeah," Ranma answered. He swallowed down an instinct to insult the man. It's what he would normally do. "I didn't know you practiced out here." Truth was, he didn't even know where he was at the moment, but felt fairly certain he was a fair distance away from the Kuno estate.

"Only when I need to escape from home, Pigtailed-Girl." He continued to stare into the distance, and sighed deeply. "My sister and father's arguments were unusually . . . vigorous, this afternoon." He offered up a wan smile. "Sometimes the simplest of parks can offer a tranquility that the grandest of dojos can not." Then the kendoist shook his head, as if dispelling unpleasant thoughts, and his lips curved into a smile that looked only a little forced. "But my apologies!" he exclaimed, turning to him. "'Tis not proper to burden a fair maiden such as you with . . . ."

"With what?" Ranma asked dryly, as the kendoist got his first good look at the battered and bruised girl.

The man stared at him in shock. His eyes danced from bruise to scratch, and traced the black and blue pattern of injuries wherever they were exposed. For some reason, Ranma made no effort to hide them.

"What foul . . . ," Kuno began. He swallowed. "What happened?" he asked.

And for no reason that he could fathom, Ranma answered with the truth. "I was raped." The words just seemed to slip out.

Kuno didn't answer. Ranma continued to watch him, his lips slowly curling into a bitter smirk. Inside he wondered why he told Kuno. He couldn't think of anyone less likely he would have sought out for advice. Yet here they were, sitting together, and he had just admitted the worst thing imaginable to him. Maybe I trust him because he's such a fruitcake, he thought. No one would believe him, anyway. Or maybe, he thought, I saw a genuine glimpse of that honour he keep going on about, right then in that quiet moment. Maybe he'll understand. Maybe I can trust him. Maybe he can help me.

Kuno finally found his voice. "You were. . . ."

"Yeah, I was."

"I'm so sorry—"

Ranma's smirk hardened. "Why? Was it your fault? No. So don't be."

"How—"

"At that party a few weeks back. At Kiyoshi's, remember?"

Kuno nodded.

"Remember how people were going about the next day, saying all that nasty shit about me, about me being naked and drunk and sleeping around? Yeah, you remember. Well, it was half-true. I was drunk. And half-naked. And somebody thought that was reason enough to make a truth of the last bit, too."

Kuno's eyes widened. "What do you mean?"

"I passed out. And while I was unconscious, somebody . . . ." He felt his bottom lip tremble. He took a deep breath. No fucking way. Not in front of Kuno. With a steady voice, he finished. "Somebody had their way with me, Kuno."

"Who?" Kuno's voice remained calm, but his hand was suddenly on his sword. His hand around the grip trembled and whitened. "Who?"

"I don't know. Believe me, I don't know. I don't remember any of it."

"Then how do you—" Kuno's voice shook with suppressed emotion.

"Because I'm pregnant, Kuno," and Ranma's smirk reached a bitter, brittle peak.

"You are with child?"

Ranma released a sharp bark of laughter. "I'm not fucking 'with child', Kuno! I've got something inside of me, yeah. I didn't put it there, and I damn well don't want it there. But it's pretty good proof that I was raped, don't ya think?"

He couldn't believe he was having this conversation. In a darkening park sitting across from Kuno, telling the boy about being pregnant; it was too surreal. For a moment Ranma felt a moment of disequilibrium, of utter loss. His vision swam and he took several forceful, deep breaths. Everything is going to be okay, he thought. I've got the cure right here. His hand dropped to his pocket and patted the small lump there.

"How are you . . . doing?" Kuno hesitatingly asked, and then immediately rushed on. "No. Please, do not answer that. It was a stupid question. I apologize."

Ranma shrugged. "Nah, not at all."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

Despite himself, Ranma actually felt touched. He'd always thought of Kuno as more of a friend than a rival—the man simply hadn't been strong enough a martial artist to challenge him in a fight, and as a romantic rival he was simply too insane—belonging to the same gang as Mousse and Ryoga. That made him a very strange kind of friend indeed. And although the help was being extended to the 'Pigtailed Girl', not to his male half, he still felt impressed by the kendoist's immediate desire to help.

"I don't know, Kuno. I don't know what I'm going to do. I really don't."

Kuno took his hand. It was the kind of gesture that normally would have warranted a punch, but there was nothing romantic in the act. His concern seemed genuine. "Pigtailed Girl," he said. "I . . . listen. Whatever you do. The vast weal. . . No. The full power of . . . No!" He gave his head another shake and tried again. "If my money can help, it's yours. Anything the child needs, is yours. Truthfully."

And that, right there, was the real issue, Ranma thought. In a very level voice, he said, "Who says I'm going to have the child?"

The reaction was immediate and far stronger than expected. Kuno leapt to his feet, barely managing to catch his blade before it hit the ground. He stared down at her, aghast. A moment later he stormed away. He stood several meters away, visibly shaking, before stalking back to Ranma. His face was flushed red and the tendons stood out tautly along his neck.

"You would . . . you are considering . . . you plan to _kill_ the child?"

Ranma found himself almost unable to answer. "I don't know, dammit!" he almost shouted back. A note of pleading crept into his voice. "Kuno, I don't know what to do!"

Kuno stared back at him. "I cannot believe you would even consider such a thing, Pigtailed Girl!"

"What choice do I have?" Ranma demanded.

"Keep it! Raise it! Love it!"

And then Ranma suddenly found himself standing, stalking towards the other youth. "It's not mine! I don't want it! I hate it!" He was screaming in the kendoist's face. "My life's already ruined! It's ruined! And this thing, this damn thing," he insisted, clutching violently at his stomach, "this thing is just going to make it worse!"

Kuno grabbed Ranma's by the wrist. "Pigtailed Girl!"

Ranma stopped and glared at the taller boy. "Let me go. Now." He felt a swelling of emotion within: overwhelming fear, at a man grabbing him; intense rage, a chance for revenge.

"Only if you calm down."

"I could hurt you. I could rip you apart."

"I know." Kuno eyed him coolly. There was no fear there, only a strange calmness in his restraint, almost as if he had done this before.

Ranma stared at him for a moment longer, and then forcefully relaxed. Kuno released his arms. The moment he did so he turned and began to walk away.

"Where are you going?" Ranma called after him.

Kuno stopped. "Away, Pigtailed Girl."

"You think I should keep this . . . thing, inside me."

"I think," Kuno answered. "That it is not my decision to make." He spared a glance back at her. "I also think that if you do this thing, that you will regret it. That it will destroy you even further. If you do this thing, I think you are not the woman I believed you to be."

"I was never the woman you thought I was, Kuno."

The kendoist sighed. "Perhaps you are right. But answer me this last question, Ranma."

"Yeah?"

"How could Saotome allow this to happen?"

To which he could only think of one answer. "I don't know, Kuno. I really don't know."

It was only several minutes later, standing alone in the park, that Ranma realized that Kuno had finally called him by his real name.

**Next**: Back to Akane. What advice will she give her former fiancé? And who else did he see and ask for help, during the previous night's wandering?


End file.
